


University Bleus

by caravanslost



Category: Rugby Union RPF, XV de France
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amis, amours, angst. </p>
<p>[I wrote a shoddy draft of this fic for NaNoWriMo 2013 and I'm editing at a glacial pace].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Damien Chouly stood at the door to his room and surveyed his handiwork with a degree of satisfaction. He had been the first student to arrive at the hall, and after Servat had helped him lug his bags up the stairs, Damien had set about the task of unpacking his bags and arranging his room with a gusto that took him by surprise. He was taken aback by how good it felt to be back.

He was also determined to enjoy the order while it lasted. Roro had often noted that Damien's room was a mirror image of his state of mind – and a week into the semester, he knew that the bed would remain unmade, the desk would be invisible under the weight of miscellaneous clothes and papers, and that anything lost would only be recovered when he moved out of the room at the end of the year. Damien would grow to hate spending time in there, and would be loath to allow anyone else to witness the carnage firsthand.

The sound of the campus grew progressively louder through his window as more and more students arrived, and he figured that he would eventually be obliged to emerge from his room to see everyone. Damien sighed and decided on a brief lie-down to recharge before his presence was expected – maybe even a nap, if he could manage it. And yet, the sight of the ceiling seemed to busy his mind even further, thoughts volleying across his mind.

A small pool of anxiety gathered in his chest as he contemplated the coming year, and he tried to pacify it by shifting around to make himself more comfortable. He tried lying on his side and stomach, fetching a second pillow and then getting rid of both, and climbing under the sheets, all to no avail. Eventually, Damien gave up, closed his eyes, and gave in to his apprehensions, wryly contemplating every single thing that could possibly go wrong this year. _A grade average to maintain. Those damn recruitment processes. Not having a student arrested or killed on my watch as a residential assistant._

 _And Roro,_ he mused. _Mostly Roro._

His thoughts were disrupted by a sharp knock on the door. It was a distinctive sound, not least because the person making it was the only other student in the hall who ever bothered with the courtesy of knocking.

“Come on in, Vincent.” He called out, smiling.

A cheerful face opened the door and entered the room. Vincent sat at the edge of the bed, and Damien sat up to greet him, brazenly eyeing him up and down and raising an accusatory eyebrow.

“You look infuriatingly good, as ever.” And it was true. Vincent's skin was decidedly more bronze than it had been during their last encounter, save for the darker freckles peppered across his nose, and he had slicked his hair back in a manner that Damien suspected to be of Clement's devise. “Don't you ever get bored of looking so – wholesome?”

“Like I'm going to take advice from a guy who's napping before the semester has even begun.” Vincent rolled his eyes, but seemed pleased nonetheless. “But it's good to see you. Dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes and all.”

Damien punched him lightly in the ribs. “How was your holiday with Clem?”

“Heaven, aside from the weekend when we both had food poisoning. And the day when Clem lost his camera and went into mourning, but someone found it and handed it in to the hotel. Otherwise, we spent a lot of time getting lost in narrow alleyways and relaxing on the beach.”

“I hope, for the sake of the other guests, your hotel room was more soundproof than any of the rooms here.”

“You're just jealous that you're not getting laid.” Vincent smirked.

“Whatever, man. I'm just happy that my room is next to neither yours nor Clem's. I might actually get some sleep this year.”

“Chou, you _never_ sleep. And if you're going to lay the blame at anyone's feet, blame -”

Damien raised a hand to stop him, and gave him a dry warning look. “Not now. Not this early in the year. For the love of god.”

“I'm just saying. It's been what – almost two years now?”

Damien sighed. He didn't need a sermon on how long it had been. He knew more than anyone. “Just – I want to be organic about it. Can we leave it at that?”

Vincent observed him for a long moment before finally nodding, and switching to a more conciliatory tone. He laid a reassuring hand over Damien's. “You know I only raise it because I don't like seeing you like this. But if you want me to shut up about it, I will. For today, anyway. I'll probably pester you about it next week.”

“I figured.” Damien replied wryly, his expression softening. “Did you only come in here to pester me about my love life and show off your tan?”

“I came to remind you about our meeting with Guy.”

“I didn't forget. One does not easily forget a meeting with our vengeful Lord.”

“Y'know, you're going to have to get over your fear of him sooner or later. He's really quite pleasant when you get to know him well.”

“You _would_ say that, being the undisputed golden child and chosen son. And it's not so much fear as a – well, a deferential respect. He runs the place well, I'll give him that. But I don't doubt that he could order a speedy beheading if necessary.”

“Well, don't give him a reason to, and you should be fine.” Vincent retorted. “That's not the only reason I came in here. I saw Roro come in earlier. I figured you might like to know.”

Damien nodded nonchalantly, and around anyone else, his response would have been successfully interpreted as indifference. However, Vincent knew him too well – and indeed, made quite a show of scrutinizing his expression for a response. So much so that Damien couldn't help but smile drily.

“If you're waiting for me to blush, it's not happening.”

“I know. You're good at hiding it. Don't you ever think that has something to do with the fact that you've been keeping mum for _two years_?”

Damien reached for the nearest pillow and aimed it at Vincent's face. “I thought you were going to give me a break till next week, you insistent wanker.”

“I'm just saying. If you want to see the guy, he's here.”

“Duly noted.”

“I'll leave you to bring down your heartbeat before you go find him.” Vincent teased, eyes glinting. “Maybe change your shirt. And dab on a little bit of cologne.”

Damien smacked him in the face with the pillow again. “Please, just go ravish your boyfriend and leave me in peace.”

Vincent raised his hands in defeat and smiled. “As you wish. It's good to see you again in any case – even if you have become a more bitter bastard over the summer.” He stood up and went to the door, turning to look at Damien briefly before his exit. “Oh, and Chou?”

“Yes?”

“If you haven't done anything about – well, _that_ – by the end of the year, I'm taking matters into my own hands.”

Damien eyed him skeptically. “Right. And when did you decide this, exactly?”

“In the three seconds between me sitting on your own bed and reaching the door. I'll see you tonight in Guy's office.” Vincent winked, left, and closed the door behind him.

Damien lay back down on his bed and contemplated the ceiling once more. Vincent typically liked to make him uncomfortable about – well, _that_ – but this year, he seemed to be pursing the issue with a little more aggression. A small, sentimental part of him was touched that Vincent seemed so invested in his happiness, but a larger, more sensible part of him was a little worried that Vincent's good intentions would take him too far.

 _And Roro's here_.

Damien figured that he would have to go and see him, and the small pool of anxiety reassembled itself in his chest. They hadn't seen each other all summer, and although they had kept in constant touch, the distance between them had been something of a comfort to him. It was much easier to downplay his feelings when Roro wasn't living ten metres down the hall. Sometimes, he even felt as though he could rid himself of his affections, if he really wanted to. But he _didn't_ want to, and he was careful not to interrogate the reasons why too closely,

*~*~*

Vincent returned to his room to find Clem sprawled out on his stomach across the bed, engrossed in a magazine.

“How's Chou, then?” Clem asked, not looking up.

Vincent locked the door and joined him on the bed, lying on his back and closing his eyes. “Chou is as Chou-ly as he ever was. I told him Roro was here. Actually, I think I may have pushed that ship out a little too far.”

Clem closed the magazine and turned on his side to face Vincent. He traced an idle finger down the length of his arm and smiled. “To continue with your terrible nautical metaphor – that ship has been moored in the harbour for as long as we've been at university. It's becoming rusty and a little bit depressing to look at. We either push it out and see if it goes anywhere, or we disassemble the damn thing and put it out of its misery.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we disassemble Chou?”

“I meant disassembling his feelings, you idiot.” Clem replied, smiling.

“Well, in any case, he told me to forget all about and go do something else. Like come ravish you.”

“Did he actually suggest that you ravish me, or are you just in the mood?”

“He actually suggested that I come back and ravish you.” Vincent responded. “Though I'm not sure if he knew I'd take him literally.”

Clem moved closer and slipped a hand beneath Vincent's t-shirt, watching as the body under his hand tensed and rose to meet his touch like clockwork. “So, tell me. Who are we going to be disrupting this year?”

“Well.” Vincent began, a little breathless at the unexpected touch. “The room on the left belongs to Titi. The room on the right belongs to Fulgence.”

Clem's fingers teased their way up Vincent's chest, lifting the t-shirt with them. “Titi's probably in the library already. Fufu's probably listening to music on those monstrous headphones of his.”

Vincent laughed. “And if Titi's in his room, and Fufu's doing something else?”

“In that case,” Clem murmured, slipping a leg between Vincent's, “we should probably let them know what they're in for as your neighbours.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“When I see Max, or Yoann, or both of them,” Benji declared, “I'm going to kill them.”

Thomas smiled despite himself, folding a t-shirt into his chest of drawers. “No, you won't. I wish you could, but you won't.”

Benji threw him three more t-shirts out of the suitcase to sort, and settled back against the headboard of the bed. He was rarely in a bad mood – if ever. Although Thomas was equally aggravated on account of the sudden room change, he couldn't help but enjoy Benji's disgruntlement, because it wrecked charming havoc on his face. Thomas had always rather liked Benji's pouts, even if he was glad he rarely had occasion to see them.

“I'm just saying,” Benji continued, throwing him a pair of jeans and a towel. “It was perfect. Max was going to room with Yoann, I was going to room with you, and everyone was going to live happily ever after. And now, this.”

“It's a pain, I know” Thomas replied, ever the diplomat, “but at least we're friends with both of them. It could be worse. You could have been assigned McCaw.”

“I know. I know.” Benji whined, “But he's not you. I had all these plans of creeping into your bed in the middle of the night, and now I can't because you're in the next room and Yoann's going to need his beauty sleep.”

Thomas smiled wistfully. Trust Benji to evaluate things on the basis of his sexual agenda. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to disagree. They had spent all of last year creeping about, avoiding others with mixed result. There were people in the Hall who Thomas knew would never quite look him or Benji directly in the eye again. He had hoped to avoid that in their second year.

Benji fished through Thomas's suitcase and emerged with a pair of socks. Instead of tossing them over to Thomas, he absentmindedly unravelled them and began twisting them around his fist, pulling them beyond the fabric's capacity. Thomas decided to let it slip.. “I just don't get  _why_.” Benji added. “And at least you get Yoann. I mean, I love Max. I do. But sometimes he gets all quiet and moody and I don't really know what to do with him. Yoann's a bit easier for someone like me to handle.”

Thomas shrugged. “I'd rather have Max. At least the guy gives you space when you want it.”

“This is going to be a memorable year.”

“Amen, and here's hoping for the right reasons.” Thomas scoffed. “Now, throw me more clothes.”

“You've got the whole year to unpack. Come here and entertain me.” Benji drawled.

“I've got the whole year to entertain you. Help me unpack.”

He beckoned Thomas over with a playful finger. “Kiss me and I'll throw you a sweater.”

Thomas regarded him frankly. “At that rate, I'll finish unpacking by graduation.”

“So we'll up the rate.” Benji bargained, expression like the devil, and woes of Max and Yoann entirely forgotten. “A hand-job and I'll get out of your way and let you unpack; a blow-job and I'll do your unpacking for you.”

“One day,” Thomas began, putting down the pair of jeans he was folding, and making his way over to the bed despite himself, “one day you're going to learn that in the real world, sexual favours are not a standard form of currency.”

Benji grabbed Thomas by the hips as soon as he was within reach, and pulled him down onto his lap as though he was weightless. Reflexively, Thomas's arms wound their way around Benji's neck and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

Till they were interrupted by a distinctive “ _Ahem_ ”.

They had been caught so many times that they no longer bothered to clamber off each other. Instead, both shifted to get a good look of their guest; they found a mess of black curls, a beard that had not been there the previous year, and a smile bright enough to power a small town. In all, something about him looked a little worse for wear, but not by much. He threw his bags down on the floor next to the remaining empty bed, and regarded them with amusement.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” Yoann mused. “If you two want, I can leave and come back -”

Thomas manoeuvred off Benji's lap and sat next to him, leaning against the little remnant of the headboard not occupied by Benji's sizeable shoulders.

“Not at all.” Thomas smiled. “Though it's fortunate that you came in when you did. Five minutes later and you might have been seen things that would have sent you to therapy.”

Yoann rolled his eyes and sat down on his bed, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I figured that since the door was ajar, nothing unsavoury was going on inside.”

“Rule number one of rooming with either Thomas or myself,” Benji smirked, “is that you should presume we're fucking unless proved otherwise.”

Yoann laughed again, and Benji once again found himself wishing that he had been assigned Yo as a room-mate instead of Max. He liked to think of himself as something of a comedian-in-residence, and Yoann buttressed that side of him well. Yoann laughed often, and he laughed sincerely. Max remained on the opposite end of the spectrum – he'd smile, and occasionally manage a chuckle, but Benji could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Max give a full, hearty belly-laugh in the year and a bit that they'd been acquainted. He enjoyed Max's company well enough, but Max's reserved nature always left him feeling a little on the edge.

Thomas observed Yoann closely. “Speaking of which - Benji and I initially thought we were going to room together. You wouldn't happen to know  _why_  the allocations were changed at the eleventh hour, would you?”

The question caused an immediate shift in Yoann's demeanour, as though he had suddenly been reminded of something. He sat up a bit straighter, but looked away from both of them momentarily and paused, as though contemplating what to say next.

“Yeah, about that.” He began, his tone a little more subdued. “I asked for the switch. I'm sorry – it never crossed my mind they would split the two of you up. I figured it might have been any of the other second years”

Thomas and Benji exchanged a brief glance before Thomas spoke for both of them. “But – weren't you going to room with Max?”

“Yeah. We decided – well, no, I guess  _I_ decided – that it might not be a good idea.” Yoann explained carefully, slowly. He still wouldn't quite meet either of their gazes. After pausing for a little while longer, he continued. “Well, I supposed you're going to hear about it eventually. Might as well tell you now. Max and I – we – we're on a bit of a break.”

“You're  _what_?” Benji exclaimed, loud enough to earn a sharp stab in the rib from Thomas's elbow. Max and Yoann has been inseparable in their first year – more so than even him and Thomas. He considered them to be a fact of university life, concrete as drunken Saturday nights and exam seasons. “What do you mean, you're on a  _break_?”

Benji's outburst caused Yoann to wince visibly, though his initial hesitation to share the news indicated that he may have been expecting it. A small flush coloured his cheeks, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Just – I don't want to get into it. I'll explain later, I promise. But not now. We've just arrived back.”

Thomas placed his hand over Benji's mouth to stop the inevitable barrage of follow-up questions, and Yoann gave him a thankful look.

“Don't worry about it.” Thomas replied. “When you're ready to talk, we're here. Till then, we won't say anything. Right, Benji?”

Benji shot him a reproachful side-glance, but nodded anyway.

Yoann sighed, shrugged, and managed a humorless smile. “You never know. Max might tell you before I do.”

“In any case, we won't push you. Or him.” Thomas replied delicately, figuring that it was probably high time for the topic to be changed. “Benji's interrupting my unpacking. Think you can distract him for five minutes so that I could finish?”

“Short of putting on a full-body suit that resembles you, probably not. I actually figured I might take a small nap, if you guys don't mind. Don't let it affect you – I sleep heavily.”

Benji seemed to perk up at the revelation. “Do you now?”

“I do.”

“So – _how_ heavy are we talking here?”

Yoann snorted, and began taking his shoes off. Mere talk of a nap seemed to remind him of how exhausted he felt. He had relished the prospect of coming back to university as much as he dreaded the prospect of bumping into Max for the first time since summer, and both had kept him up the night before, and the night before that.

“Very heavy.” He assured Benji. “Borderline comatose. My pulse is barely there.”

“We'll keep that in mind.” Benji replied, smiling. “But we won't make too much noise for now. For your sake.”

“Much obliged,” Yoann murmured, climbing into bed and resisting the urge to sigh audibly at how good the sheets felt against his tired limbs. He suspected that within a minute, sleep would finally –  _finally_  - hit him with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer, and the prospect felt delicious. He stretched and allowed his back to sink into the soft mattress.”Don't mind me. I'll see you both in about three days time.”

“Shall I wake you for dinner?” Thomas asked.

Yoann barely managed a “No” before falling asleep.

Benji and Thomas sat in silence for a few moments, watching to see if he would completely succumb to slumber. When he began snoring lightly after a minute, they caught each other's eye.

“What do you think all that was about?” Thomas whispered.

Benji shrugged, frowning. “I don't know, but I don't like it. I didn't think they were capable of breaking up. I mean, if _their_ relationship can hit rocks, what hope is there for the rest of us?”


	3. Chapter 3

Damien found Aurelien's door ever so slightly ajar. He knocked, and Roro called out, though his voice was distant. The sound of a running shower came through the door.

“Who is it?”

The sound of his voice lit something up in Damien's chest. “Me.”

“I'm in the shower. Won't be long. Come in.”

“Shall I shut the door?”

“Wasn't it closed?”

“Not properly.”

“Oops. Yeah, shut it.”

Damien shook his head as he entered. _Oops, huh?_ Go figure. He briefly surveyed his surroundings and found the room as impeccable and well-organised as all of Roro's room had ever been. There had always been something of a dissonance between him and his surroundings – such a tidy environment seemed significantly out of sync with such a slap-dash, impulsive personality. And yet, everything was in its place – not only neat, but equally pleasing to the eye. It was little wonder that Chou would find himself spending more and more time in Roro's abode. For those reasons, of course, and others.

He perched himself in the window-seat and looked out over the courtyard of their hall, which spilled out over the main university campus. Cars, taxis and buses populated the area, and people seemed to be spilling in from left, right and centre. The first years were immediately discernible from the returning students – even if they had been spared the ignominy of being accompanied by fussy parents, they always just had more _stuff_. Each came with at least two suitcases, completely oblivious to the possibility of accumulating more things as the year progressed.

Chou loved the beginning of the year – indeed, he was taken with the notion of anything resembling a fresh start. He no longer had to dwell on last year's fuck-ups, and he hadn't been at uni long enough to fuck up anything new just yet. At this moment in time, he could still entertain possibilities. And entertain them he did.

Only the sound of the bathroom door opening distracted him from his reverie. Roro emerged from the shower with only a thick fluffy towel around his waist and a smile.

“Chouly.”

“Rougerie.”

“Good to see you.”

“What, don't I deserve a change of clothes?'

Roro ignored the dig and walked over to the window, leaning to take in the sight that had kept Chou so deep in thought.

While he surveyed the scene outside, Chou allowed himself a discreet look. A few inches away, Chou noted that Roro hadn't dried himself off properly. Droplets of water still remained untouched on his shoulder-blades, and his hair was dripping as well. He smelled good too – a light mixture of berries and aftershave and cleanliness. A rebellious, ridiculous part of Chou's mind contemplated how close the towel's edge was to his hands, but he restrained, for the good of everyone.

“Ah, first years.” Declared Roro, with all the innocence of a glutton at a feast.

“That's not a particularly trustworthy smile.” Chou replied, though he conceded to himself that it was rather charming nonetheless.

Roro gave him a wry side-look. “It's just a smile, Chou.”

“It's never just a smile with you. I know you, remember? But you're a prefect now. You're going to have to be a little more careful, you know.”

Roro laughed and stood up, stretching out, forcing Damien to look back briefly towards the window so that he didn't stare. “And who says I won't? I'll be careful, but I'm still going to enjoy the year. With great power comes great privilege.”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure that with great power comes great _responsibility_.”

Roro pointed at Chou, as though to chastise him, wiggling his eyebrows. “That's because Voltaire was a humorless fuck.”

 _Trust Roro to be arrogant enough to feel at ease criticizing Voltaire_ , Chou thought. As much as he worried about Roro's occasional forays into recklessness, it was difficult not be taken – even a little – by the abandon with which he approached seemingly everything. Even worse for Chou, Roro's eyes seemed even bluer in these moods.

“Just don't get carried away.” Counseled Chou, ever the sage to Roro's bandit.

“I won't get carried away. But if, in the grand scheme of things, I do, you'll help me clean up, won't you?”

Chou rolled his eyes, and didn't dwell too long on the fact that he probably would. “We've got our meeting with Guy soon. You better make yourself look decent. At least throw on a t-shirt above the towel.”

“What?” Roro asked, his tone mock-scandalized, motioning at his body. “You want me to hide all of _this_?”

*~*~*~*~*

The taxi-driver had dumped Morgan and his suitcases at the courtyard of the residence and driven off as soon as he had received payment, probably off to look for another fare in the sea of students. Morgan watched him go with irritated disbelief, and contemplated his options. He had three bags, and only enough strength to carry one bag inside at a time, but he didn't trust his environment enough to leave anything outside. He looked around him briefly – people were either too occupied lugging in their own belongings, or catching up with reunited friends. Morgan paused, remembered to breathe, and tried to stifle the rising urge to simply hail another cab to the airport, and then back home.

Two figures emerged from the main doors and didn't seem to be in a rush, so he swallowed his pride and caught their attention. Immediately, they smiled and approached him.

“Hey. Sorry. I don't mean to be a pain – but could I get you guys to help me carry my bags inside?” He asked sheepishly.

“Well then.” The shorter one smiled, his expression sly. His friend had a slightly rounder, kinder face, and an immediately endearing look about him. “Now you know to pay the taxi-driver only _after_ he helps you take your things in. But don't worry. Rookie mistake – everyone makes it. I'm Thomas, by the way. This is Benji.”

“Thank you so much.” Morgan replied, as they each took a bag and began hauling it towards the entrance. Within seconds, they had both made half the journey while he continued to struggle with the bag that had broken wheels.

In his bother of trying to pull the bag, Morgan had turned his back to the door – and sure enough, felt somebody collide into him within moments. Morgan felt himself keel off-balance – taking the bag down with him – till a strong pair of hands gripped him around the torso and held him still, before helping him upright. Regaining his balance, he steadied his bag and turned around to apologize.

He was met with a face that he immediately knew wouldn't be leaving his mind for a fair while. A pair of sumptuous lips framed a kind, if amused, smile – the kind, he stupidly found himself thinking, that would probably be quite nice to trace with his thumb. Morgan eventually gathered himself and looked up into a pair of light brown eyes in dark, flawless skin, and the deed was done. He felt something in his chest simultaneously sink and lurch, but he hoped that he had kept it in. Mostly. Hopefully. _Please god_.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Sorry” Morgan apologized, for the second time in as many minutes. _Roaring start to your tertiary education, idiot_. “Are you okay?”

“Totally. Do you need help getting that inside?”

“No, I'm fine. Sorry. I mean – it's fine – thanks.”

With another smile, he resumed his way out the courtyard. Morgan resumed lugging his bag, and began cataloguing the twenty mistakes he had made in the course of the brief conversation on his way to the door. Thomas held the front door open for him, and they insisted on waiting for him to check in so they could help him take the bags up to his room. As he left them to go speak to the receptionist, Morgan could swear that from the corner of his eye, he spied Benji exchanging a look with Thomas and biting down a smile, but he figured he'd have plenty of time to mull over the meaning of _that_ later.

Fifteen minutes later, after he had thanked them so profusely they asked him to stop, he closed the door to his room for the next year and collapsed onto the bed. His room-mate hadn't arrived, and a part of him wondered whether it would have been more polite to wait before laying claim to either side of the room. But the rest of him – frankly, _most_ of him – found itself drifting back to those lips.

Morgan reached for the pillow and smothered it onto his face. He didn't need this. Not now. Not so soon. Not when he didn't even know the guy's name. Not when the first impression he had made was a clumsy collision. He had wanted to spend his first day here walking around, finding his sense of direction around the obscenely large campus, seeing where his classes would be – and yet, here he was, in bed in the afternoon, trying to step on the embers of something he didn't quite understand.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Chou and Roro hovered outside Guy's office, waiting for Vincent to turn up. Roro paced up and down the holding room, and Chou regarded him with a smidgen of annoyance. Within ten minutes, he had made himself look completely impeccable from head to toe, whereas Chou had agitated for a good quarter of an hour with a mirror and a hairbrush on his hair alone, to no avail. Roro had donned a nice shirt and respectable slacks as well, making Chou feel a little under-dressed in his jeans and regulation band t-shirt.

Vincent eventually walked in, dressed more like Roro, and read Chou's expression immediately. “Don't worry about it. Seriously. You won't have time, and Guy's not going to care.”

“Dashing as ever, Vincent.” Roro mused. “Did Clem choose that outfit?”

Vincent laughed. “That obvious, huh? Never mind. You look good too.”

Chou groaned and fired them both a dirty look. “Can you two please admire each other later so that we can get this sodding meeting over and done with?”

Vincent and Roro exchanged knowing smiles as Vincent knocked. Several seconds passed before Guy's voice thundered through the heavy wood.

“Enter.”

The office of Guy Noves was large, imposing, drowning in paper, and surprisingly dark for this time of the afternoon. The few areas of the rom not taken up with bookshelves were wallpapered with framed photographs and certificates. It was the room of a man who had been where he was for a very long time, and who wasn't about to leave anytime soon. It seemed less a formal office than a private study. Guy himself sat behind his large mahogany desk, watching the three of them enter with his arms folded across his chest, giving the impression of a rather alert vulture. He pointed out the three seats across from his desk and motioned for them to sit. Vincent sat upright, Roro took his comfort, and Chou had the distinct manner of someone awaiting a job interview.

“Welcome back, gentlemen. I trust you all had good summers?”

Vincent and Roro nodded jovially. Chou nodded once and readjusted his position in his seat.

“Congratulations on being selected as prefects. You should all be very proud.” He continued, reaching for three large manila folders in front of him and distributing one to each of them. “Now, this shouldn't take long. I called you in here because I want to take you through a few administrative matters – your duty rosters, your areas of responsibility, the events you're expected to organize, and a few emergency procedures.”

As Guy spoke, he noted with interest that Chou was the only one taking down notes – and he seemed to be taking down enough notes for all three of them. Vincent followed him through the stack of papers as he went along, whereas Roro seemed to be skipping ahead. _Diversity in a prefect group is always good_ , he thought with satisfaction, although he reflected that he would never picked these three for leadership positions at the end of their first year. Vincent had been too shy, Chou had favoured headphones over conversations, and Roro had been the mischievous bane of his existence. Their second year had mellowed those tendencies, as second years are known to do.

“So, any questions?”

All three shook their heads.

“Good. In which case, you can go – and I'll see you at the Hall meeting this evening before dinner.” However, as the three of them stood up, Guy looked to Roro. “Aurelien, could you stay behind for another minute, please?”

The other two looked at Roro with muted relief, like siblings about to escape reprimand. Roro ignored them and sat right back down, completely nonplussed. Guy had loathed that about him in his first year – he would spend an age chastising Roro after some misdemeanour or another, and the boy never once looked shamed. Once he had learned to behave, however, he found that Roro's over-confidence became less of an issue.

Guy waited till the door closed before allowing himself a little smile. “Well, Aurelien. You've come a long way since first year.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the nature and gravity of your responsibilities, this year.”

“No, sir.”

Guy leaned forward, his face frank. He took off his glasses and surveyed Roro carefully. “But I'm sure you'll understand if I go ahead and do so anyway, for my peace of mind above all else. I trust you won't take it personally”

Roro smiled. Even in his first year, when his every interaction with Guy was unpleasant, he couldn't help but admire the man's blunt nature. “I won't hold it against you. I've spent a lot of time in this office. I don't forget it.”

“Good. In which case, I'll be brief.” Guy began seriously. “I was very impressed with you last year. I've been here a while, and your one-eighty-degree turn was a welcome relief. Please see that nothing changes. The staff expressed a lot of faith in you by offering you the position.”

“I realize that, and I appreciate it.” Roro responded. He didn't enjoy reminders of how terrible he had been, but he figured that the least he owed to the world for putting up with him back then was to sit there and weather them when they came along. However, they stung particularly hard when they came from Guy – more than he cared to admit. Perhaps because Guy treated him – and everyone – less like an aggrieved administrator than as a communal father figure. “I won't let you down. You have my word.”

Guy seemed placated. “Good enough for me. You can go now. I'll see you at the meeting later this evening.”

They exchanged smiles and Roro left the room, feeling a little more humbled than when he had walked into it half an hour beforehand. As he closed the door on his way out, he was surprised to note that Chou and Vincent had waited for him outside the whole time.

“What was that about?” Vincent asked.

Roro sighed, as though burdened by something. “Guy wasn't happy. He told me to do something about Chou's godawful sense of dress.”

Chou smacked him on the back of the head and rewarded him with a look that could slice diamonds. Roro winked at him and rubbed the area of impact.

“He told me that if I knew what was good for me, I'd stay as far away from my first year self as possible. Maybe not in as many words,” he conceded, as they began walking back to the room, “but that's the gist of it. I told him that I wouldn't. I'm _pretty_ sure he believed me.”

“The poor man.” Chou remarked drily.

“Excuse you. I'm an angel now.”

 _No_ , Chou found himself thinking with resignation. _You may look like one, but you're not._ However, he kept the thoughts to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Morgan arrived at the dining area early, and joined the queue of roughly ten students who had turned up before him. They all seemed to recognize one another, and were lost in their own spirited conversation, forcing Morgan to conclude for the umpteenth time that day that there wasn't a hope of eventually taking part in the conversation himself. Eventually, the serving kitchen opened, and he filed in behind the others. None of the offerings – pizza or steak cutlets - seemed appealing to him, though he couldn't be certain whether it was because of his appetite or his mood.

The dining room itself was large, walled in glass, and with a relatively pleasant view onto the small river that ran through the campus grounds. Almost a dozen long tables were arranged in two rows down the room, and university banners and shields festooned the walls. Morgan paused at the entrance to the room and surveyed his options. He could either graft his company onto either of the two groups that had each claimed a table – or he could sit by himself. Neither was particularly appealing, but one seemed infinitely less embarassaing than the other. Conscious of not dawdling at the doorway for too long while carrying his tray, Morgan made his way to the nearest empty table and sat down. He began eating slowly, picking at his food more than anything else, lost in his thoughts.

Eventually, someone banged down a tray opposite him and sat down, scaring the living daylights out of him. At first, Morgan felt awash with relief, but it then receded as quickly as it came, because Morgan realized that it was _him._ The boy from earlier. He had showered - his hair was still wet, and he smelled far more citrusy than anyone his age was wont to do – but the smile was the same as it had been that morning, if a little wider. He smiled apologetically.

“Hey. Do you mind if I sit with you? It's just - I don't know anyone else here, except you – sort of - and everyone else looks a bit chummed up already, y'know?”

“No, that's okay.” Morgan replied, and he smiled back, extending his hand. “I'm Morgan. First year.”

The boy had a firm handshake, and a hand that seemed twice as big as Morgan's. His skn was warm too. “Thanks. I'm Wesley. First year as well.”

 _Wesley_. _Well, better than “The Boy”_ , Morgan reasoned.

“My room-mate should be here soon too. You wouldn't mind if he sits with us, would you? He seems like a good guy. I mean, I only talked to him for about three minutes earlier on,” Wesley admitted, ripping into his bread roll with relish, “but he seems cool enough.”

“Not at all. Better than sitting alone, right?”

“Oh, god, I know.” Wesley replied, and his expression turned serious for a moment. “I was a bit worried that I'd have to, to be honest, but then Brice showed up, and I'd bumped into you earlier -"

“Literally.” Morgan smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that, again.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow. “You know, I think that's the fifth time you've apologized to me for it. Don't worry about it. Seriously. It was as much my fault as yours.”

“Duly noted.”

A second tray banged down on the table next to Wesley. Its owner was built a little more stockily, but his face was softer. He kept his thick dark hair in a short, utilitarian style, and he smiled at Morgan as though they had known each other for years. Whereas Wesley's smile made Morgan's heart perform acrobatics, his room-mate had the kind of face that put on immediately at ease.

Between mouthfuls, Wesley barely managed a “Morgan, Brice. Brice, Morgan.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you, Morgan.” He sat down and cheerfully began to dissect his steak. “So – what are you guys studying?”

Noting that Wesley was a little too involved in his dinner to speak immediately, Morgan spoke first. “I'm majoring in political science, minoring in philosophy.”

“Really?” Wesley exclaimed, suddenly excited. “I'm doing politics too – but I'm minoring in psych. Maybe we have a few classes together? We should check our schedules at some point.”

Morgan swallowed his disbelief at the universe with a spoonful of salad. _At some point_ , _huh_? “Maybe we do.”

“I'm majoring in philosophy, so maybe we'll have some classes together as well, Morgan?” Brice added.

Morgan smiled, and they began discussing their backgrounds and respective home towns. Brice had enough energy for all three of them and talked enough that the possibility of an awkward silence between seemed negligible, much to Morgan's relief. Wesley was almost as enthusiastic, and often chipped in and asked questions of the both of them. Morgan, on the other hand, was content to listen and let them speak. Even the bland rice and flaccid salad seemed tolerable given the lively conversation. An hour ago, disheartened by that morning's encounter with Wesley, he had lain in bed and contemplated the alarming possibility of spending the whole year friendless. An hour later, he had company, and half of it was _him_. Wesley. _Wesley_. Somehow, putting a name to face almost made it worse.

A clinking sound reverberated throughout the room, interrupting their conversation, and a hundred heads turned towards one of the tables at the beginning of the room. Morgan hadn't even noticed the staff slipping in. Guy Noves stood at his seat and surveyed the students before him with a small, contented smile.

“Welcome, everyone, to a new year. For those of you I haven't met before, my name is Guy Noves, and I'm your Dean. For those of you returning to us this year, welcome back. It's good to see a full hall again. I won't keep you from your meals for long, but I'd like to introduce you to a few faces that will hopefully become familiar to to you as the year goes by.” Guy then turned to the figure on his left – a man of hefty build, a smatter of blonde hair, and a memorable jawline. “This is the first deputy Dean, William Servat. He's in charge of the security end of things, and any misdemeanours, or other such breaches of conduct are very much his business.”

Servat nodded briefly at the sea of students, his expression set like concrete. “It's good to see you all, although I hope I don't have cause to get to know any of you particularly well this year.”

Guy resisted the urge to smile at Servat's particular brand of welcome, and turned to the figure on his right – a slighter figure, who immediately seemed more relaxed. He had the wisps of a beard, and something youthful to his face. “This is Jean-Baptiste Elissalde. He's the Deputy Dean, and head of administration. He deals with human resources and finances.” Guy then motioned to the figure next to Elissalde. “And if you can't tell by the collar – next to Jean-Ba is Father Florian Fritz. I think he'd like to say a few words. Father?”

Father Fritz stood up, bedecked in black slacks and a clergy shirt. He struck everyone in the room as being far too young and far too good-looking to be a priest. “Thanks Guy. I trust you've all noticed the chapel to the left of the main building – Mass is on Sunday, as usual. However, I'm also in there most days anyway, so if you have a few minutes spare between the alcohol poisoning and debauchery where you want to chat about anything, you know where to find me. All non-denominational, of course. And I promise I won't try to convert you. Scout's honour. Thanks for listening.”

Guy turned back to the students. “Right, I think that's all for now. Enjoy your dinners, and the few days you have left before the semester begins.”

A peculiar smile played across Wesley's lips, his eyes still very much on the table holding all the staff. “So, who wants to come to mass with me on Sunday?'

Brice temporarily took a break from his steak to raise a curious eyebrow in Wesley's direction. “Oh? You're religious?”

“Not particularly.” Wesley smarmed, turning his attention back to his plate. “But I think I'll give Father Florian's sermons a go.”

“You think you'll find him spiritually and intellectually stimulating, huh?” Brice remarked wryly.

Wesley elbowed Brice in the rib, but his expression suggested that Brice may not have been far off the mark.“I don't know about the spiritual and intellectual but – but you might be onto something with the stimulating bit.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Thomas and Benji had stayed true to their word, and refrained from waking Yoann up for dinner. He woke up of his own accord a little later, and when his eyes groggily readjusted to the light, the realization that there were only five minutes before the kitchen closed made him jump out of bed and get dressed in Olympic time. He didn't even check his reflection before he left, although he ran his fingers through his hair when he caught sight of himself on the stainless steel of the serving kitchen's bain-marie.

It took him all of five seconds to spot Max in the dining room, nestled in a small group with Francois Trinh-Duc, Fulgence Ouedraogo, and Maxime Mermoz. Yoann noted with regret that there wasn't a spare seat next to him, or indeed anywhere near him. In fact, the only empty spot anywhere in the room seemed to be next to Titi Dusautoir, who had waved wildly to catch Yoann's attention as soon as he walked in the room. As much as Yoann loved Titi – and he did, a lot – he went to sit next to him with a heavy heart, and kept half his attention on Max throughout their conversation.

Eventually, Max got up, cleaned away his tray, and left the room. Yoann excused himself quickly, telling Titi that he'd be right back, and tried not to sprint out the room in a bid to catch up with Max. He followed Max as he bypassed the lifts back up to the rooms in favour of the main doors outside, and once Max had reached the main courtyard, Yoann caught up and placed a hand on his shoulder to catch his attention.

Max froze at the contact and turned around. “What the _hell_ do – oh. Yoann.”

Yoann's heart squeezed unpleasantly. He had not enjoyed the tone with which Max had said his name – a kind of stifled discomfort had marred the syllables, as though Max had intentionally tried to take all emotion out of it. Yoann had heard Max say his name in every manner under the sun – happily, with scandal, breathlessly – but never before like this.

“Hey, Max.” He replied, trying to sound as cheerful as usual, despite everything. “How are you? When did you get here?”

“I'm okay. Got here yesterday.”

“Did you – how was your summer?”

Max shrugged, his expression distant despite the fact that he was meeting Yoann's gaze. “Fine.”

Yoann tried to remember the last time Max had spoken to him in monosyllables, but couldn't. Even during the odd occasion when they fought, Max would become more verbal than usual – he hated allowing disagreements to fester, and would insist on talking through them then and there. But this – this was harder than that.

“What I mean is – well – have you been okay since we -”

“You,” Max interjected, matter-of-factedly.

“ - since I – y'know.” Yoann conceded. But he couldn't quite bring himself to say it. Not with Max staring him down like this. “Have you been okay?”

“I guess.”

Yoann sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “Look, Max, please - I don't want to lose you as a friend as well.” He paused for a moment, trying to gauge a shift in Max's reaction, but none were forthcoming, so he continued. “I'm sorry. I really am. I just – I don't want us to spend the rest of the year avoiding each other. Please?”

After a long pause, Max eventually replied. “Neither.”

 _Still a mono-syllable_ , Yoann reflected, _but at least it's an encouraging one_. “Good. Thanks, I just wanted to – well – check. Are you – you are okay, aren't you?”

“I'm fine.”

It had perhaps been a futile question. Even if he wasn't – which, in all likelihood, he probably wasn't – Yoann suspected that Max would have kept it to himself, and it pained him. As difficult as it had been for him to decide that they ought to take a break, it had been ten times as difficult to cope with how quickly and completely Max had shut him out of his entire life. Yoann wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this wasn't it. Max didn't protest, or raise his voice, or try to reason Yoann out of the decision – and yet on reflection, Yoann almost wished he had. It would have been more palatable than the way he had simply just _accepted_ the news.

“I mean it, Max. I don't want to lose you entirely. I hope I don't have to.”

A pained look shadowed Max's features temporarily. “You – probably don't.”

“Good.” Yoann managed, relieved. “And – for what it's worth, it's good to see you.”

Max nodded, but didn't return the compliment.

“I'll, um – I better return to dinner. I'll see you around though, right?”

Another nod. Another stubborn refusal to meet words with words. A part of Yoann resented Max's inability to meet him halfway, while another part of him laid the blame entirely at his own feet. After all - he had broken up with Max, and he had begun seeing other people first. Yet another part of him – a particularly self-loathing component – reminded him that Max had always wanted him a little bit harder than he had ever wanted Max.

Yoann decided to leave before guilt crushed him in the courtyard. He gave Max a half-smile, briefly touched his elbow, and then turned to head back inside. He consoled himself with the weak thought that Max couldn't keep this up for the whole year, surely. They had lessons together. They were living next door to each other. They had no option but to learn to navigate a friendship.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Several nights later, Chou and Roro were in the middle of a DVD in the latter's room when Chou's duty phone rang – to his surprise, because he wasn't on duty. Roro groaned, made a big show of pausing the movie.

“Hello?”

“Chou, hey.”

“Vincent?” Chou frowned.

“Yes. Listen – can you do something for me?”

“Depends.”

“ _Chou."_

“I'm listening.”

Vincent cleared his throat. He sounded odd, although Chou couldn't quite place his finger on what it might have been. “Listen. A first year's just turned up late, and no one's down in the office to check him in. Do you mind going down and – well, taking care of it?”

“Hang on a second, aren't _you_ on duty?”

“Well, yes – I am – but my hands are a bit – full – at the moment.”

“Full with what?”

“Never mind.” Vincent replied testily. Chou had never heard him sound agitated before, and he found himself rather enjoying the experience. “Will you do it? Please?”

“Are you hands full with something that rhymes with Phlegm?”

Roro let out an almighty cackle at Chou's side, loud enough to obscure the tirade of profanities streaming into his ear over the phone. “Chou, for _god's sake_. You have my blessing to give me hell about this for the rest of the year – but for now, just _please_ go and let in that boy before Servat tells Guy that he's been standing there for ten minutes.”

“You owe me, Clerc. You owe me big-time.”

Chou hung up, reached for the nearest sweater – one of Roro's. Meanwhile, Roro had forgotten his annoyance at their entertainment's disruption, and eyed him curiously.

“What was that all about?”

“Well,” Chou began, pulling the sweater over his head, his head swimming a bit with the scent of Roro's clothing. “I can't really be sure, but I think our honourable head prefect has been enjoying conjugal relations while on duty. And I'm going to go pick up his slack.”

Roro lay back and schemed. “We could probably find out if we go and knock on their door, you know.”

“*You* can. I'm going to fetch this kid out of the rain.”

But on his way downstairs, Chou couldn't resist passing by Vincent's room and giving an almighty knock on the door, just to aggravate its occupants. He heard Clem swear from inside, and with his curiosity sated, Chou sprinted down the stairs and into the front foyer to let the clearly shivering figure outside the main doors inside. The moment the doors opened, the young man stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief.

Chou allowed him a few seconds to recover, and used them to gauge him. He was diminutive, with a roundness to his figure that was accentuated by the heavy coat bundled around him. When he slipped off the hood, Chou noted a youthful face, large eyes, and a mop of damp hair that wisped every which way.

“Sorry I'm so late.” He began awkwardly. “My taxi never showed up, so I missed my plane, and I had to wait a few hours for a seat on another flight to become available.”

Chou smiled kindly at him. “Sounds like you've had a hectic day. Don't worry about it – you made it here, at least. Shall we check you in? I'm Damien, by the way.”

He nodded enthusiastically and followed Chou into the main office. Chou decided that he liked the kid. Most people would have arrived feeling harassed and irritated with the world, and would probably not have taken well to the idea of being kept outside in a nascent storm. However, the new arrival seemed much more placid – indeed, he had the distinct air of someone who was afraid that he was inconveniencing everyone around him.

Chou located the arrival files, and flicked through to the small pile yet to be processed. “Right. What's your name?”

“Maxime Machenaud.”

“Christ. Well.”

Maxime turned a delightful shade of red. “Sorry?”

“No – that wasn't at you.” Chou smiled to himself, pulling out his file. “You're the seventh Maxime we've had this year. We'll have to find you a nickname.”

The prospect seemed to alarm Maxime in the extreme, so Chou distracted him by handing him the key to his room and a few papers to sign; he waited and tried not to become too charmed by the kid. When everything was done, he locked up the office and picked up a few of Maxime's bags.

“Come on. I'll show you where your room is.”

“I – I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.”

“You won't. I promise.” Chou smiled. He wanted to tell Maxime to relax a bit, but he suspected that it might only make him feel unnecessarily worse.

As they hauled everything into the lift, Maxime cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming down to get me, by the way. I'm sorry you had to do it so late at night.”

“Tell you what, Max. If you forgive us for leaving you standing outside in the pouring rain for almost quarter of an hour, I'll forgive you for disrupting Spiderman 3.”

For the first time – finally – Max smiled, and to Chou's delight, it was almost incredulous. “Spiderman 3? Surely you should be – I don't know - thanking me?”

“Don't you dare, kid.” Chou replied, narrowing his eyes in jest. “Don't you dare.”

Maxime shrugged, and he seemed to relax. “I'm just saying.” He teased. “Life's too short to sit through that movie more than once.”

They eventually arrived on the right floor, and Chou pointed them both to the left, in the direction of his room.

“I've met your room-mate, by the way.” Chou informed him. “Nice guy, if a bit shy at first. I think you'll both get along. It takes a bit of time to get used to sharing a room, but I'm sure you'll manage.” He stopped at the right door, and gave Maxime a final smile. “Well, have fun settling in. Let me know if you need anything over the next few weeks, okay?”

Maxime beamed, and Chou made his way back up to Roro's room feeling like maybe he _wasn't_ going to completely blow at being a prefect.

However, Maxime now stood at the door to his room, and his feelings of anxiety re-emerged as soon as they seemed to have vanished.

As soon as he raised his hand to knock, the door was opened by whoever was inside.

“Hey! You must be Maxime. I'm Morgan. Come on in. Do you need help with your bags?”

Without waiting for an answer, Morgan began helping him with his bags anyway. Maxime bewilderedly wondered whether he had stumbled into the most helpful pocked of the country, and began shifting his things to the unoccupied side of the room.

“Yeah, sorry.” Morgan noted sheepishly. “I probably should have waited to see whether you were okay with taking that side of the room, but I wasn't sure when you were poised to arrive, and when I arrived, I was kind of exhausted so I collapsed on one immediately, and - “

Maxime cut in gently, lest Morgan continued apologizing into the following day. “Don't even worry about it. As long as I have a bed, I don't care, honestly. Thanks for helping me with my stuff.”

Morgan locked the door as Maxime collapsed onto his bed, and the true extent of his exhaustion hit him with the delicacy of an anvil. He sighed, stretched, and had to fight very, very hard not to fall asleep then and there, sopping coat and all.

The silence was eventually broken by the sound of his stomach vocally protesting its hunger in the strongest terms. Maxime sat up like a jolt and looked to Morgan, horrified.

“Christ, sorry about that.”

To his relief, Morgan seemed almost amused. “When was the last time you ate?”

“God, I can't even remember.” Maxime admitted. “I was so nervous about missing my flight that I couldn't keep anything down. They might have served dinner on the plane, but I was asleep, and I didn't have time to pick anything up from the airport.”

“If you're hungry, I have food.”

Maxime flushed. He opened his mouth to thank Morgan, and to explain that he'd rather wait till breakfast, but his stomach interrupted him, growling louder than it had before

Morgan laughed. “Right. You need food. I have food.” He went over to his bedside table, opened a drawer, and looked into it. “What's your chocolate?'

“My – what?'

“Your favourite chocolate.”

“I – alright then. Twix?”

A moment later, a Twix bar flew across the room and landed in his lap. He looked up at Morgan with disbelief, and Morgan seemed to take supreme delight in his surprise.

“How the hell....?”

“I keep a stash.” Morgan replied plainly, taking a Kit-Kat out for himself and lodging on his bed. “I've been to boarding schools most of my life, and when your breakfasts, lunches and dinners are routinely disgusting, you fall into the habit of hoarding tasty things.”

“Lucky me, then.” Maxime smiled, pulling apart the wrapping and diving into the chocolate. “Thanks, Morgan. I owe you one.”

“Help yourself whenever you feel like it. Seriously. God knows I tend to stock up more often than I probably need to.”

“How long have you been here, then? What's it like?”

“I've been here two or three days. It gets a bit easier once you know a few names and faces. If you come down with me to breakfast and lunch tomorrow, I can introduce you to the handful of people I've talked to. They're pretty nice for the most part. There's Jean-Marc, and Benoit, and Camille – and Brice is next door. So's, uh, Wesley – they're room-mates.”

Maxime may have been tired, but he wasn't gone enough to miss the tiny hitch in Morgan's tone and breath at the last name. Morgan played it off like it was nothing, and continued listing names, occasionally furnishing him with a further detail or two as to where they were from or what they studied, and Maxime indulged him in the belief that he had missed it. A part of him wanted to ask, but they'd only known each other for five minutes, and he already owed Morgan a chocolate debt. Besides – they had a whole year ahead of them. He'd get around to asking, eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

Brice looked up from his cereal at breakfast, a few days later.“A _what_?”

“A toga party.” Morgan repeated, reading off the announcement sheet. “I think it's supposed to be a beginning of the year thing. Or maybe an initiation thing? I don't know.”

“What does it involve?”

Morgan skimmed through the rest of the sheet and turned it around to check, just for good measure.“It doesn't really give any more information. It just says to turn up to the dining room at 7pm in a week's time in a toga, and the buses will take us into town. And it says not to turn up drunk.”

“But I didn't pack my toga.” Brice protested.

“I think we're supposed to use sheets.” Maxime offered shyly. “Just ordinary white ones, and wrap them around ourselves. Although they don't seem to realize that summer's over. It's going to be cold. We're going to freeze.”

Wesley winked over the piece of toast he was buttering. “Never mind, Maxi. I'll keep you warm.”

Maxime and Morgan blushed, albeit for different reasons, and Brice simply rolled his eyes. They had all figured out that Wesley's default method of interaction with other human beings was gratuitous flirtation, but it was going to take some getting used to. Brice was perhaps the most accustomed so far – after all, he shared a room with Wesley, and he had learned quickly that if he was going to survive the year, it was best to indulge him. And occasionally, throw a well-aimed pillow in his direction.

Morgan blushed because Wesley was flirting with someone other than him. Maxime blushed because he was Maxime, which meant that blood rushed to his cheeks like gravity rushed things to the ground.

“I think I'll just wear a jacket.” Maxime responded, but Wesley was already looking rather gleeful.

Morgan smiled, and tried not to be too outwardly appreciative of the segue. “I don't think they wore jackets in the Roman Empire, Maxi.”

“They invented aqueducts and sanitation.” Brice pointed out. “They had probably figured out something close to a jacket.”

“Oh? And how do you know what the Romans invented so well?” Morgan asked curiously.

Before Brice could open his mouth to respond, Wesley chimed in. “Because whereas most 18 and 19 year olds like to enjoy their youth and spend their time outside, our Brice likes to spend a good portion of the day with his head buried in a book.”

If Wesley was trying to put Brice on the defensive, it failed spectacularly. Brice grinned and shrugged. “So I like to read. Sue me. And for your information - ”

“I won't sue you,” Morgan interrupted, because left to their own devices, Wesley and Brice could while away the day with their banter. “But I'll probably copy off your philosophy homework at some point. And speaking of which – I'm going to go buy my books today, if anyone wants to come with.”

“I'll go with you.” Maxime volunteered. A small part of him wondered whether Morgan was eventually going to get sick of him tagging along, but it made things easier for now. Morgan seemed to have already introduced himself and talked to every single other person in the hall – such that whenever they walked down the corridor, he felt comfortable saying hi and exchanging a few words. And although Morgan introduced Maxime to everyone he encountered when they were together, Maxime still didn't quite feel confident enough to bite the bullet and talk to anyone of his own accord.

Nonetheless, he was grateful that the four of them seemed to have fallen into a comfortable rhythm of sitting with each other during every meal. Occasionally, other people joined them, but more often than not, the four of them were left to their own devices. As much as it took to grow accustomed to Wesley's particular brand of humor, and as witless as he felt next to Brice's constant wise-cracking, he enjoyed their collective company, and he felt himself opening up to them a little bit more each day.

“Maybe we can even go get sheets for this toga party thing too, actually.” Maxime pointed out.

A distinctive voice boomed out from directly behind him. “Did I hear someone say sheets?”

Roro had finished his breakfast, and he had been about to leave, but he had eavesdropped enough to take a seat and plonk his empty tray down next to Marshmallow.

“Yeah, I said sheets.” Maxime explained, bewildered as to what he might have said that could have caught the attention of a prefect.

“See, that's your first mistake.” Roro declared. A part of him wanted to tell Maxime to relax – he wasn't going to bite his head off – but he had it on good authority from Chou that to draw attention to Maxime's embarrassment was to amplify it ten-fold. “See, the first rule of a toga party is that you never, ever use a sheet. You go to a fabric store and buy a few metres of cloth. Sheets aren't cut the right way, and they're stupidly expensive.”

Wesley leaned forward with interest. “Do we have to buy white sheets?”

“No one's going to kick you out if you don't.” Roro smiled. “But every year there's one guy that turns up in something else. Usually something outrageous. Don't be that guy, Fofana. Please.”

Wesley narrowed his eyes in jest. “You don't even know what I have in mind, Rougerie.”

Roro raised an eyebrow. “You know, most first years wait at least a few months before they feel comfortable enough to address a prefect with such – _familiarity_.”

Brice clapped Wesley on the shoulder and looked at him with mock-pride. “That's our Wes, though. Insolent as fuck. Are you going to let him get away with it?”

Roro pretended to think for a moment as he collected his tray and made to leave, though he couldn't keep the amusement out of his expression. “Yeah, I think I will. This time. Make sure that there isn't a next time. Got it?”

Wesley saluted him as he left, and his gaze followed Roro till he disappeared into the serving kitchen again.

“Y'know, of all the prefects,” Wesley declared, “I think I like Roro the most. He's not bad. And he's not bad to look at, either.”

Brice reached for the remnant of his toast and threw it at Wesley. “Of course you do, Wes. There isn't a single person you find unattractive.” He turned his attention to Morgan and Maxime. “The first one of who finds someone to whom Wesley _isn't_ attracted wins a prize, deal?”

Morgan scoffed and gave Wesley a wry smile. Somehow, he I didn't think that was going to be possible. _We're all going to have to forfeit_ , he thought to himself, _and the winner's going to be Wesley._

*~*~*~*~*~*

A little later, Maxime was eyeing Morgan with a touch of disappointment, which he tried – and failed – to conceal.

“So – you're not coming?”

“Nope. I need to go switch around one of my courses. But don't worry, you won't be on your own. You'll have Brice for company, at least, and Brice is excellent company.” Morgan replied, though his attention was a little more focused on the stack of papers on his bed, which he had amassed from his bag, his closet, and his desk. Maxime marvelled at how anyone could accumulate so much, so quickly, and watched as Morgan rifled through each pile furiously. “God damn it, where did I put the damn thing?”

“What are you looking for?”

“My course confirmation slip. I can't find it.”

“Is it pink?”

“Yes.”

“Is it smaller than your average piece of paper? Like, maybe an A5 size?”

“Yes – I – ” but Morgan then paused, and looked up at him suspiciously. “How did you know what it looks like?”

Maxime pointed to Morgan's bookshelf. “There. On the second shelf. You separated it from the rest of your documents so you wouldn't lose it, just in case you needed it during the rest of the week.”

Morgan turned and noticed the pink slip with disdain. “Shit. I did, didn't I?”

“Hey, at least you found it.” Maxime pointed out, the glass ever half-full. He leaned against his own desk and surveyed Morgan casually.“So – both you and Wes are changing into the same course, huh?”

“Yep.”

Morgan had developed a habit of answering any questions Maxime had about Wesley as briefly and factually as possible. Maxime figured that Morgan considered it a convincing display of impartiality – but given how frequently, and how _much_ , Morgan talked in the brief time that they'd known each other, the change in speech pattern might as well have been accompanied with klaxons and a forty-foot banner.

“Huh.” Maxime mused. “Interesting.”

“Hardly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Because I'm pretty sure you're blushing, Morgs.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes and waved the errant confirmation slip accusingly in Maxime's direction. “It's contagious. I picked up the damn habit off you.”

“Well, I won't pry.” Maxime smiled. “But in the off chance that you need to talk about something – and I'm not saying that you do, or even that there's anything to talk about in the first place – I'm here.”

“Duly noted. And for your information, I was going to switch courses anyway. Wesley decided to tag along, not the other way around.” Morgan retorted drily, though Maxime seemed amused nonetheless. “Besides, don't you have somewhere to be?”

Maxime glanced at his watch and did a double-take. Brice was probably already downstairs. He collected a jacket, his wallet, and keys, and just before he closed the door behind him on his way out, he gave Morgan his cheekiest look. “Make good choices.”

Had he closed the door a millisecond later, the shoe would have probably clipped him on the head. Maxime had a quiet giggle on his way down the stairs – it felt good having someone with whom he was comfortable enough to poke fun, and Morgan was a very obliging target. He became quietly flustered in a way that was extremely satisfying to behold.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Brice arrived at the entrance foyer several minutes earlier than he needed to, and spent ten minutes flicking through magazines in the reception area that hadn't been changed in almost three years. At eleven on the dot, Maxime emerged from the stairwell with a shadow of a smile across his features.

“You look chipper.” Brice noted, as they stepped out into the cool air. He pulled his coat a little bit closer around him.

“I – it's Morgan.” Maxime admitted, and his smile widened as he recalled whatever had amused him. “It's stupid. But he'd kill me if I told you.”

“Is it to do with ….. well, let's see …. Wesley?” Brice guessed.

Maxime looked at him, suddenly wide-eyed. “Morgan told you?”

“No. Not at all. But I have eyes. And Morgan – bless him – is hardly a master of subtlety, is he?”

“He's not, is he? But he tries.”

“Exactly. Too hard. I think that's half the problem. It'd be a lot easier for him if he just _relaxed_ a bit.”

“I don't know, Brice.” Maxime replied pensively. “I've been rooming with Morgan for a week now. I don't think relaxing in his nature.”

“In which case, we can all be thankful for the fact that Wesley is the most oblivious human being this side of the planet.”

“You think so?”

“Not for certain, but call it a well-grounded hunch.”

As they crossed the campus and entered the fringes of the city centre, Brice talked, and Maxime was happy to listen to him. Brice talked about his family, and his older brother, and the nephew he missed so much, and how he was glad to be here but taken aback by how much he was pining for home. He complained about the hall menu, yearned for his mother's dinners, and vowed that he could make a better dish than the head chef's sorry excuse for a paella. He talked without reservation, as though he and Maxime were old friends who simply hadn't caught up in a while, and it put Maxime at significant ease - even though he had figured by now that Brice approached everyone with the same absence of inhibition.

Maxime didn't think of himself as a particularly interesting person, so he fell back on asking Brice questions rather than divulging anything about his own background. Happily enough for all parties, Brice was only too happy to answer, and never once did he seem to be speaking out of a desperate desire to keep silence at bay. After a while, Maxime realized that he too had been so engrossed in their idle chatter, that he had forgotten to worry about the possibility of uncomfortable silences. When it came to his attention, he ventured out and guiltily admitted that he wasn't missing home as much as he had expected to. Brice responded with such an exaggerated look of feigned disgust that Maxime fell into irreversible giggles, drawing concerned glances from a family waiting next to the them at a pedestrian crossing.

They talked all the way to the department store, and within a minute of walking into the fabric section, a sales assistant had picked them for students. She pointed them in the right direction and briefly told them how much material they'd probably need. They spent the next twenty minutes bewildered by all the different varieties of white fabric, and then another ten trying to choose between them.

Maxime ran a hand along the length of a particularly lacy variety. “What about this one? It feels really nice.”

Brice looked wryly from the fabric to him. “Do you see how many holes are in a metre of that thing?”

“It's lace, Brice. The holes are kind of the point.”

“If we buy it, we're going to get arrested for indecent public exposure.”

Maxime glanced once more at the regulation, plain-as-day white fabric Brice held in his hands. “But the one you're holding is so.... -”

“ – functional?”

“ _\- boring_. Wesley's never going to forgive us."

A smile teased the corners of Brice's mouth. “I would never have pegged you as an exhibitionist, Maxi.”

“You _know_ that's not what I meant.” Maxime protested, with such earnestness that Brice changed tactic. “ I just – I'm trying to think of how to make these togas look interesting, and if the fabric's plain..... -”

He trailed off and went quiet, and for a moment, seemed to be thinking very, very deeply. Brice eyed him curiously, and was about to interrupt the reverie when Maxime turned to him with a look that whiffed of unbridled possibility. Maxime suddenly became very, very animated.

“Of course.” He said wonderously. “If the fabric's plane, we can do more to spruce it up, can'e we? Hang on. Come with me.”

Suddenly, Brice found himself being pulled along one aisle after the next. Maxime seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, but he failed to tell Brice – and Brice would have asked, but he was too amused by the sudden excitement across his features to disrupt him.

Eventually, they came to a stop, and Maxime triumphantly declared, “This is it.”

Brice surveyed the shelves housing their target, and raised an eyebrow. “Er – coathangers?”

“No, not coathangers.” Maxime replied, seemingly quite taken with them nonetheless. He pulled a ten-pack of the plainest wire hangers off the display and held them between him and Brice. “See these? We could each take one, untwist it completely, _retwist_ it into a few circles, and decorate it with leaves. And then we can wear them on our heads. They'd be like – oh, christ, what do you call them? - laurel wreaths.”

Brice stared at him blankly for a few moments. “That's – genius.”

Maxime tried not to look to pleased with himself, and failed with flying colours. “I mean, it wouldn't be too hard, and it might make the outfits look a little bit more authentic – y'know?”

“How in seven blazes did you come up with that?”

“I do – well, I _did_ – it's just – I like craft. There, I said it.” Maxime flushed. “And if you tell anyone, I'll kill you.”

Brice laughed and raised his hands, as though in defeat. “Hey, far be it from me to threaten a man that knows his way around a pair of scissors.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Chou had nowhere to be for the moment, and it felt good. He had completed his duty shift, he had chosen his papers specifically to keep Thursdays like tomorrow free, and he had stayed up the night before completing his readings. In the end, he collapsed into bed at 2am with a pounding headache and the delicious prospect of a completely free day ahead of him.

When he finally came to, roughly near midday, Chou smiled into his pillow, fumbled around for the iPod on the bedside table, and slipped on his headphones before pulling the blankets over his head once more. Chou knew that he'd eventually have to get up and find himself something to eat, but he figured that he could withstand the pangs for another couple of hours. Sleep was more important, and he liked nothing better than drifting in and out of consciousness with music in the background.

So he slept, and he dreamed. He dreamed of missing class and failing tests and doing his laundry. And he dreamed of Roro as well, standing over him and saying something indistinguishable.

It took him a full minute to realize that the last one wasn't quite a dream. He also discovered – to his significant dismay - that his blanket had been pulled away from over his head. Roro, being Roro, made things even worse by gently pulling the headphones off Chou's ears and throwing them onto a pile of clothes on the other side of the room. The iPod was returned gently to Chou's bedside table, because Roro wisely appreciated that damaging Chou's music collection would see his lifespan shortened by a decade or two.

It took Chou almost another minute to rub the sleep out of his eyes, to stretch, and to fix Roro with a stare like a guillotine.

“Morning, sunshine.” Roro sing-songed. “Shall I open the curtains?”

Chou groaned. _Not natural light. Anything but natural light._ “Fuck you.”

Roro made good on his threat, and opened the windows for good measure. Chou's heart sank as sunshine and the sounds of daily life filtered in from outside.

“Chou, it's three in the  _afternoon._ It's almost time for dinner. No one's seen you all day.”

“Go away. I'm tired. Also, fuck you. Hand me back my headphones.”

Roro, being Roro, interpreted that as an invitation to sit down at the edge of Chou's bed. He slipped his shoes off, comfortable as you please, and sat cross-legged on the mattress. Chou begrudgingly shifted closer to the wall to make space for him.

“So, tell me.” Roro began. “When did you get to sleep last night?”

“I crept in at two in the morning. I think I had fallen asleep within a minute.”

This seemed to please Roro. “Good. So you didn't spend a century tossing and turning?”

“No. Not this time. I coma'd out as soon as I hit the sheets.”

\--

Chou and Roro had met on their first day at the hall, two years beforehand, because they had been assigned as room-mates. Chou had dreaded sharing a room more than absolutely anything, and had made a polite request for a single room in his application, which had been declined with an equally polite but dismissive letter from the hall's administration at the beginning of summer. He had spent his remaining weeks at home worrying about the prospect of driving his future roommate tinsane through the sheer force of his insomnia.

When they met, Chou was immediately taken by Roro, which made him feel all the worse, because Roro seemed like the kind of person Chou wanted to be friends with, rather than a person whose sleep he would be happy to disrupt. They had arrived almost at the same time, helped each other with their bags, and spent an afternoon talking easily as they unpacked. But that night, Chou took hours to fall asleep on account of his nervousness – and his restlessness was made only worse by a conscious decision on his part to stop shifting about, for Roro's sake.

To his additional dismay, Roro turned out to be an early riser, and a noisy one. He was up at seven on their first day at the hall, even though they wouldn't start class for another week. In the end, Chou got up with him, and managed as best as he could on only three hours of sleep. Eventually, he fell into the habit of passing one night awake and anxious over his inability to doze, and passing the next night in a heavy slumber, sleeping off the effects of being awake for almost forty-eight straight hours. It ruined him.

One night, almost three weeks into the semester – one of the sleepless nights – Roro suddenly sat up in bed, flicked on his bedside lamp, and turned to face Chou in the opposite bed.

“Chou? You're awake, aren't you?”

Chou could have dissolved into his sheets with shame.“I – yeah. Sorry. Am I keeping you up?”

“No, you're not. It's okay. Listen – in case you haven't figured it out by now, I sleep like a sledgehammer. You won't bother me. Just – do what you need to do, okay? Don't mind me.”

“If I do what I need to do – which rarely works - I'll _definitely_ end up keeping you awake.”

“No, _seriously_. I'm going to feel terrible if you're restricting yourself in any way on my behalf. You don't have to. My brother has pretty bad insomnia too. I get it.” He insisted earnestly. “Come on. Tell me. What do you normally do to try to get yourself to sleep?”

Chou sighed, and summoned the seemingly endless list of tips and tricks he had accumulated across the years, from books and websites and well-meaning aunts. Some of them worked once, others worked a while and then never again, and some of them only succeeded in making him feel more awake than when he got into bed. “Well,” he began, embarrassment shading his voice, “if I'm at home, I'll usually make myself a glass of warm milk or something.”

Roro raised an eyebrow. He found something amusing in the image of tall, glowering Chou with a glass of warm milk in his hand. Chou must have read it in his expression, because Roro had to swerve leftwards to avoid the cushion that had been flung at his head.

“I'm – no, sorry, really, I don't mean to laugh. It's just – does a glass of warm milk ever work?”

“Probably not.” Chou conceded begrudgingly. “But it tastes good.”

“Okay, warm milk is out of the question. What else do you do?”

“Sometimes I go for long walks. Or I watch a movie – I don't really have a long attention span, so sometimes I find myself falling asleep halfway.”

The second suggestion seemed to appeal to Roro. “Right, a movie it is then. Movies I can work with. Hang on.” He fetched his laptop, booted it up, and sauntered over to Chou's bed. “Come on. Budge up.”

Chou stared at him incredulously. “I – why?”

“So we can watch a movie.” Roro explained gently, as if Chou had missed the obvious. “There's nowhere we could put the screen so that it's visible from both our beds. And this way, if you fall asleep, I can quietly withdraw myself and leave you be.”

“And, uh, if I don't fall asleep?”

“In that case, I get to choose the second movie for round 2. Now scooch and let me in.”

Chou did as he was told with a sense of morbid hesitation. He appreciated the effort, and the good intention behind it, but anxiety pooled in his chest and drove sleep further away than it had been that entire night. He shifted closer to the wall, and Roro lifted the covers to get in with him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. And for Roro, who took his liberties with people rather soon after meeting them, it probably _was_ the most natural thing in the world. Chou, on the other hand, was cut from a completely different cloth.

The bed was big, but it wasn't _that_ big, so as Roro busied himself with creating a shortlist of films for Chou to choose from, Chou tried not to focus on exactly how little space there was between them. Their shoulders, arms, and legs pressed against each other because there was nowhere else to go, and even where a few inches of space remained here and there, the warmth of Roro's body seemed to jump across the divide and into Chou's skin. Or maybe he was just blushing. He couldn't be sure. In any case, he was supremely thankful that the only light in the room came from the dim glow of Roro's bedside lamp, so that his shyness remained a secret between the semi-darkness and himself.

“Come on. Choose a movie.” Roro pointed proudly at his shortlist. “Okay, so here we have a selection of four classics, spanning genres, decades, and the gamut of critical acclaim. For drama, we have “The Breakfast Club” from the 80s. For comedy, there's “Sleepless in Seattle” from the 90s. For horror, we've got “Saw” from a few years ago, and for action, we've got “The Godfather”.”

Chou gave him a wry look. “I didn't take you for a movie geek. Or, y'know, a Meg Ryan fan.”

“I know I come off as an uncultured swine, but I promise you, I'm not.” And he jabbed his elbow into Chou's side, just for good measure. “Now, if you don't choose within the next ten seconds, I'm starting Saw, and then neither of us is going to sleep for the next week.”

Chou looked once more to the list of films and paused to contemplate. On one hand, he knew exactly what he wanted to watch. On another, he knew what he wanted Roro to think he wanted to watch.

“You're taking a stupidly long time to choose, Chouly,” Roro observed. “Let me put you out of your misery. You want to choose “Sleepless in Settle”, but you're afraid of admitting it. Am I right or am I right?”

“No.” Chou responded, sounding defensive enough to invert the meaning of his word, but glad that Roro had seen through him anyway.. “Start it anyway. If you want.”

“For god's sake. I _own_ the movie. I'm not going to judge you.”

Once the movie started, Chou witnessed a side of Roro he hadn't seen before – and one he didn't think many people had a chance to witness. Roro completely lost himself in the movie, though had had obviously watched it before. As a result, Chou's anxiety over his insomnia receded into the background as his attention became torn between the movie and his roommate's behaviour.

Roro giggled like it was his first time watching the film, and he kept interjecting to offer Chou little gobbets of trivia. During the scene where Tom Hanks and Victor Garber were crying over “The Dirty Dozen', Roro pointed out that their dialogue was completely improvised. When Meg Ryan's character was in the kitchen listening to the radio callers, Roro paused the movie to inform Chou that in fact, the caller describing herself as “Disappointed in Denver” was none other than Nora Ephron, the movie's director. Chou didn't particularly care for the information, but he was rather charmed that Roro knew it, and felt so compelled to share it.

At the very end of the movie, Roro turned to Chou to inform him that the two leads share only two minutes of screen time together – but he found him swiftly asleep.

Roro smiled victoriously, and removed himself as gingerly as he possible could from Chou's bed. As though sensing the extra space in his sleep, Chou slumberously rolled over onto his stomach into the empty space. Roro covered him up, turned off the laptop, and returned to his own bed. From then on, whenever Roro found himself still awake during one of Chou's sleepless nights, he climbed into Chou's bed and schooled him in film.

–

Now that Chou had a room on his own, the sleepless nights had become a little bit more frequent, and a little harder to bear. As much as he wanted to, and as much as Roro insisted he could, Chou couldn't quite bring himself to tiptoe down the corridor at night to Roro's room - and not only because it would arouse suspicions.

_Useless ones_ , Chou thought drily to himself.

“How the hell did you even get in here in the first place?” Chou wondered aloud. “I swore I locked the door before I went to bed.”

“You did. I picked the lock.”

Chou's mouth dropped. “Did anyone see you?”

“Only a band of first years.”

“ _Rougerie_ , you can't just -”

“I'm kidding, jesus.” Roro smiled. “I made sure no one saw me. I'm not an idiot. Besides – most people are in class.”

Chou kicked out, and his foot connected with some unknown part of Roro's anatomy. He took that as a victory and buried his face in his pillow once more. It was still far, far too early for daylight.

“What are you even doing in here?” He groaned, the down swallowing half his words. “What do you want from me? Why won't you let me sleep?”

“I just – came to say hi.”

“Hi. Now bye. Shoo.”

“Don't be glib. I'm not used to having a room on my own, you know. I'm not used to being alone all the time. I miss having you around.”

Chou's heart began hammering, and he absentmindedly wondered if Roro could feel the vibrations travel through the sheets. Sometimes, Roro said things and didn't have the first inkling of the havoc they would go on to wreck on Chou. Nonetheless, Chou was well-practiced at bringing himself under control - he caught and cautioned his thoughts before they entertained any possibility or shred of hope, and he turned to Roro with a completely uninvolved demeanour.

“You'll get used to it.”

“I know. But I'm going to come here and harass you till that happens. What are you doing tonight?”

“More readings? I don't know.”

“No, I'm pretty sure you're going to come to a movie with me and a few others.”

Chou frowned and racked through his memory. “A movie? You never mentioned -”

“Since when did I ever need to mention?”

_Fair point. You never do_ , Chou conceded in his head. And he hated himself for it.


	7. The Toga Party

Max had been sitting at his desk for a good three or four hours, and he had become very well acquainted with the finer points of the blank wall in front of him. He didn't particularly want to be there. He didn't particularly want to study. He had read the first sentence of the chapter so many times that he'd probably dream about it that night, but he couldn't get it to make sense, and he couldn't bring himself to read the second.

At some point, he slipped in his headphones. Max often listened to music while he studied; he found it easy to push the sounds into white noise. But not today. His mind mulled over the melodies, the lyrics, the hooks – _anything_ other than the textbook before him, and the other weight on his mind.

_Come on._ Max rubbed his temple, rubbed his eyes, ran a hand  once, twice through his hair . _Come on. Just read the damn chapter._

But it was no use. He slammed the textbook shut and stared blankly at the wall in front of him, unsure of what to do next.

From the corner of his eye, he spied his bed.

Max bit his lower lip. It wasn't even seven pm.But the more he looked at his pillow, the more inviting it became. Eventually, the phantom feelings of the sheets against his skin and the blankets tucked around his body made the decision for him. It was still light aside, but fuck it, right?

He climbed into his bed, leaned against the headboard, and plucked a book from his bedside table. The corridor noises streaming in through the closed door, which had grown increasingly louder with each passing ten minute interval, made him want to bury himself under his covers even further. The sounds of happiness and mirth and tipsy camaraderie only sunk him further into his bad mood. Any other year, and he would have been out there with the rest of them. Any other year, and Yoann would have been making enough noise for the two of them combined, and then some. But this was not any other year. This year, he was alone. And in bed.

The lock clicked and Thomas walked into the room, immediately fixing him with the same look of benevolent concern that he had offered the entire semester thus far.

“Max?”

Max looked up from his book in what he hoped was a casual manner. “Yes?”

“Where's your toga?”

Thomas had observed Max long enough this semester to guess at the answer, but he felt it would be polite to ask in any case.

“Not going.” Max replied, his tone the epitome of and early-evening pleasantry, as though he had made the decision a while ago for completely uncontroversial reasons.

“You can't not go.” Thomas insisted delicately. “Come on. It's a tradition.”

“Honestly, I've – y'know - just got a lot of work to do.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the book in his hands. “Right. So the Classics department have decided that the Goblet of Fire is a set text, have they?”

_Oops._

“What, can't a man take a break without his motives being called into question?”

Thomas leaned back against the door, and paused for a moment before speaking. “Max, come on. You'll regret it if you don't. Honestly. I'm pretty sure Benji's got a few spare lengths of fabric lying about somewhere, if you change your mind.”

Thomas wanted to say twenty other things, but as ever, he wasn't quite sure how to bring them up. There was a long conversation to be had about whatever it was that Max was going through, but he knew that the night of the toga party wasn't the time for it. He wanted to ask Max what had happened between him and Yo. He wanted to tell Max that moping in his room, as he had been doing since he arrived, save for meals and class, didn't seem to be achieving whatever effect he seemed to be waiting for. And more than anything, Thomas wanted to tell him he was worried about him. That _everyone_ was worried about him. That Yoann, in particular, was worried about him, anxiously interrogating Thomas at every available opportunity as to whether Max was still in the same mood or not.

“Goose, I swear. I'd just rather stay at home tonight. Just – dont' tell Benji, okay?”

Perhaps to no one's surprise, a voice thundered in from the corridor. “Someone say my name?”

Max grimaced and stared up at the ceiling deploringly, hoping that the next sound would not be that of their bedroom door opening. But lo, Benjamin Kayser was never a man to ignore the sound of his own name. He walked in with a little grin that spoke of a drink or two, but the mirth in his expression wilted when he laid eyes on Max.

“That,” Benji began, matter-of-factedly, pointing to Max's pyjamas “looks nothing like a toga.”

“Keenly observed.”

“In fact, Max,” Benji continued, “I'd go so far as to say that it looks like a t-shirt and boxers. Not Roman. Not Roman at all.”

“Nothing gets past you, Benj.” Max sighed, and readied himself for an argument. Thomas knew how to take a no, but Benji had never quite mastered the art.

“You're not staying here on a Saturday night.”

“I am.” He replied. He didn't want to snap at anyone – the last thing he needed was to alienate even more of the people he typically kept close to him – but the thought of venturing outside tonight was too unpalatable. It filled him with a sense of dread. He didn't want to see Yoann. He didn't want to see who Yoann was with. Max wanted to stay here, in bed, and sleep. He'd only recently managed to sleep without finding himself in the midst of some horrible pastiche of a dream about Yoann.

Benji wasn't having any of it. He rarely had occasion to bring out his stubborn streak, but when someone gave him an excuse, he pursued it with relish.

“You seem to think this is a negotiation, Max.” With his eyes still firmly on Max, he addressed Thomas. “Thom?”

“Yes?” Thomas replied, clearly in a less interventionary mood.

“Fetch my spare toga.”

“But Benji - ”

“ _Thom_ _.”_

“Fine, fine.” Thomas raised his hands in defeat, and made to leave the room.

“It's somewhere in my closet. Probably on one of the lower shelves, buried under something or another.” Benj called out as he left.

“I know. I tidy your shit every other week, remember?” Thomas pointed out, closing the door behind him.

Once they were alone, Benji's expression towards Max softened by the very slightest degree. Max couldn't classify the look as either sympathetic or stern. He suspected that Benji was quite fed up with him – _who isn't_? Max thought to himself – but that he was too polite to say so. And Max knew he ought to feel touched at the fact that Benji was going out of his way to pull him out of his slump, but he just wasn't in any mood to be indulgent.

“What do you think you're doing?” Max asked, his irritation woven with genuine curiosity at what ace Benji thought he was going to pull from out of his sleeve.

“I'm staging an intervention.” Benji sat at the end of Max's bed, his brows heavily crinkled but his eyes a little kinder. “Max, we've been here for two weeks now, and all you've done is orbit between this room and the library. And don't think we haven't noticed that you're always the first to arrive and the first to leave at dinner, if you even come at all. I know you bring McDonald's up here for dinner half the time. You can't keep isolating yourself. It's – it's just unhealthy.”

Max looked at the door, the ceiling, Benji's shoulder – anywhere but Benji's face. He also latched on to the one thing in that entire spiel to which he felt he could respond.

“I don't eat McDonald's _all_ the time.”

It came out a little more defensively than he had hoped.

“Look,” Benji continued, disregarding the weak attempt to change the course of the conversation, “I don't know what happened between you and Yoann over the summer. I've tried everything to weasel it out of him, but he won't tell me, and given that it normally takes me about five minutes to break him, I know whatever's going on is serious. I won't bother getting it out of you because for some reason, you've always been impervious to my charms in this respect - but I hate seeing you like this, man. Everyone does. Everyone's noticed. Hell, even Father Florian said something to us the other day. You can't keep doing this.”

Max found himself wondering whether Yoann had noticed or said anything at all – and if anyone would know, Benji would. But he wouldn't ask, because despite Benji's best intentions, he had no doubt that the question would end up relayed back to Yo within ten minutes. It was difficult enough that they had broken up. He didn't need a spoonful of Yoann's pity heaped on top.

Thomas re-entered the room with white material in hand and a hesitant look on his face. “I found it. It's not too shabby if he want to use it, Benji.” He pressed the cloth to his nose and took a hesitant sniff, and didn't immediately recoil. “Actually, it even smells clean.”

But Benji's attention was unwaveringly on Max. The second he sensed hesitation, a break in Max's resolve – and more importantly, the second he figured that Max wasn't going to give a flat-out refusal – Benji stood up, took the toga, and proceeded to pull Max off the bed.

Despite himself, Max allowed himself to be pulled up. Benji beamed victoriously. Thomas looked relieved. Max cursed at the both of them and began pulling his t-shirt off.

“Fine. Christ.” He warned darkly, as Benji prematurely began wrapping the fabric around his waist. “But if I drink myself to an early grave tonight, you'll be answering to my mother yourself.”

*~*~*~*

Wesley and Brice descended upon Morgan and Maxime's room  rather early on in the afternoon to prepare for the toga party –  mostly at Maxime's insistence, because he had glanced over a set of instructions for toga-tying and gotten himself confused, and worried, and he had then declared that they might need a few hours to work it out properly. The other three indulged him. They found it difficult not to. Maxi was very persuasive when he became flustered.

They piled the fabric on Morgan's bed, and  although Maxi wanted to start immediately, the other three sat and talked and convinced him to leave it for just a few more minutes. But minutes turned into a good few hours, such that they had raided and almost depleted Morgan's supply of junk  food . Indeed, they would have lost track of time but for a brief appearance by Vincent.

He knocked briefly on the door, opened it a crack at Morgan's invitation to come inside, and popped his head through.

Vincent beamed at them. “Boys. How are we doing?”

“Delightfully.” Wesley declared. “And how are _you_ , Vincent?”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “You know it's not a good look for a first year to flirt with a prefect, right Wesley?”

“I wasn't flirting with you.” Wesley replied silkily, his tone implying very much the opposite.

“He flirts with _everyone_ , Vince.” Brice offered helpfully. “In fact, you should only really be worried if he stops _.”_

Vincent couldn't repress a laugh. _“_ The sheer nerve of you lot. We were terrified of the prefects in my first year. I should have you all punished.”

“You wouldn't punish us. Look at you.” Brice smiled wryly. “You're harmless.”

“Perhaps.” Vincent conceded. “But I can set Servat on the four of you, at least, and I don't fancy the chances of all four of you combined against his little toe. Anyway. There's a reason I came in. I just wanted to remind you all that despite the rumors, you _are_ expected to wear something underneath your togas  tonights. Pants, ideally, but a pair of boxers at the absolute _minimum_.”

H e looked pointedly at Wesley at the last comment,  and Wesley shrugged innocently.

“Is this a common problem?” Morgan wondered aloud.

“Every year, we warn people that alcohol and loose fabric rarely mix with good results, and every year, someone ends up exposing more of themselves than they intended at the beginning of the night. Every year.”

Vincent gave Wesley a pointed look  again , and Wesley exclaimed, “ _What_ ?”

“Anyway, I'll leave you lads to it.” Vincent smiled, closed the door behind himself, and went to knock on the door of the next room along the corridor.

The four of them spent a few moments staring at the pile of supplies on Morgan's bed before Maxime sighed and gave each of them a look of resignation. “Well, we'd probably better get on with it, right?”

Morgan fetched a sheet of paper from his desk. “I printed off toga-tying instructions, in case anyone wants them. And by the sounds of things, this doesn't seem like something any one person can pull off on their own.”

“Start with me.” Wesley declared chirpily. He seemed more excited about the evening than the other three combined. “I'll just – er – fetch something I forgot from my room. Hang on.”

He ran off without explaining himself, leaving the other three to dawdle about in his absence. Almost reflexively, Brice and Maxime looked to Morgan, but he had anticipated their attention and shot each of them a glare like a poisoned spear. One of these days, he'd have a chat to them about not being so bleeding  _tactless_ all the time, but now was not the time. Morgan already felt self-conscious in Wesley's presence as it was – he didn't need the extra agitation of watching Brice and Maxi dissect his every move.

Mercifully, Wesley returned before anyone could say anything to anyone else. He closed the door behind himself, and the other three stared at the bundle of fabric in his hands with varying degrees of disbelief.

Nobody said anything for a few moments.

“Wesley.” Morgan eventually managed. “Wesley – that's – are you sure?”

On the contrary – Wesley seemed to delight in their collective reaction, as though it was precisely the one that he had hoped to evoke.

“I'm sure.”

“Are you _sure_ you're sure?” Maxime  insisted.

“I'm sure. Just – trust me on this one. Okay?”

“Wes,” Brice offered gently, “you can't wear a _leopard print toga_.”

“Watch me.” Wesley responded, sounding rather gleeful as he began unfolding the stretch of fabric. He turned to Morgan expectantly. “Come on, Parra. Hit me with the first instruction.”

Morgan gave him one final look of disbelief before turning his attention back to the piece of paper in his hands.

“Right, well, uh – first, you're going to have to take your t-shirt off. Obviously”

If Wesley sensed the hesitation in Morgan's voice, he concealed it with consummate ease. He happily took off his top and cast it on the bed, looking to Morgan for what came next. Though Morgan had read the sheet enough times to have committed its contents to memory, he nonetheless looked back down to it  for reference  and  stared intently at the second instruction. He didn't trust himself to maintain his indifference  if he  looked at Wesley – though of course, he figured that he'd eventually have to.

“Right. Er, now you pin one end of the sheet to your shorts.”

Wesley ripped into the small bag of safety pins Maxime had wisely purchased for all of them, and pinned the print as instructed.

“Wes, come _on_.” Brice implored, one last time. “We bought you a length of plain fabric.”

But Wesley only seemed to gather strength from their resistance to his choice. He turned back to Morgan, smiling like the cat who ate the canary. “Righto. What's next?”

“I – well, someone's going to have to wrap it around you. Maxi? Brice?”

They both shook their heads pointedly. Morgan shook his head too. Wesley looked between the three of them and completely misjudged all the different reasons why no one readily volunteered to help him. He raised his hands in exasperation. “Oh, for god's sake. I'm not venomous. Someone help me. Morgan? Come on.”

“I – oh, _fine_.”

Behind Wesley's back, Brice mischievously mimed applause. When Wes wasn't looking, Morgan responded with a curt middle-finger salute, and then turned his attention to the task at hand.

“Wes, you haven't even _pinned_ this properly.”  Morgan huffed, kneeling at Wesley's side and instinctively unpinningWesley's handiwork so that he could redo it properly. The fabric felt soft under his fingers, and Wesley's skin, when his hands eventually grazed it,somehow even more so. The fabric of Wesley's shorts wasn't particularly forgiving to work with, and Morgan wouldn't have forgiven himself if he had pricked flesh with the safety pin. Having three pairs of eyes following his every move wasn't making his task any easier either.

But he concentrated on the task at hand, and tried his best not to look at Wesley's bare frame unless absolutely necessary.

Eventually the fabric was firmly in place, and Morgan stood back up again to  wrap the material  once around Wesley's  torso . He  then draped it over his shoulder, adjusted the  fabric so that it folded neatly next to his neck, and moved behind Wesley to secure  the fabric with a second safety pin at  Wesley's boxers, near  the small of  his back. He worked carefully, and knowing that  now Wes couldn't see him, Morgan found himself memorizing every arch and curve of  every  muscle and  limb,  filing it away. _Later_ , he told himself.  _You can think about all of this later. Not now_ .  _Never now. Later._ Another wrap around the waist. Another drape over the shoulder. Another pin.

Morgan stood back to admire his handiwork – and the figure around which it was draped, if he was being honest – and nodded with satisfaction. “Okay. That looks like a semi-convincing toga. Have a look in the mirror and see what you think. Let me know if you want me to re-fasten any of it.”

“It looks good. Leopard print and all.” Brice concluded, not without a degree of disdain. “Damn you.”

“I only look good because of the print.” Wesley insisted cheerfully, turning this way and that way in front of the mirror to inspect every angle of his newly-draped self.

“No,” Brice corrected him, somehow delivering a sting while still making it sound like praise. “You look good _despite_ the print. It's those sodding … abdominal muscles of yours. They're sickening.”

“Well, if you just _come_ with me to the gym like I suggested - ”

Brice looked to Morgan and Maxime as though to say,  _see? See what I have to deal with?_

“The rest of you better get toga'd up.” Wesley pointed out, readjusting the surplus fabric so that it hung on the crook of his elbow. “I'll do Morgan. You two can sort each other out.”

Brice turned to Maxime. “Shall we do yours first? I think I got the hang of it from watching Morgan.”

Maxime nodded, and shyly slipped off his shirt. He fetched a length of the plain fabric and handed it to Brice, who began fumbling about trying to unclasp safety pins. When Brice moved onto his knees for better control as he began pinning fabric to Maxime's shorts, Maxime tried to look elsewhere. Brice's breath fell gently onto Maxime's skin and it was distracting. He found himself wondering, a little stupidly, whether bare chests were biologically capable of blushing. If so, he was going to be doomed.

However, he nonetheless found himself charmed by the look of intense concentration on Brice's face. He frowned – which in and of itself was something unusual for Brice – and his tongue poked out _just_ a little from between lips that were pursed tightly.

Brice's fingers accidentally brushed against Maxime's hipbone, startling him.

“What?” Brice asked incredulously, looking up at him. _What a strange vantage point_. “The needle wasn't anywhere near your skin!”

“It's not the needle. It's – your damn hands -” Maxime laughed, having quickly recovered from the shock “- they're bloody _freezing_.”

“They are _not_.” 

“Yes, they are. Like you've been keeping ice in your pockets.”

Brice narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. Nonetheless, he blew warm air into his palms and rubbed them together quickly, staring skeptically up at Maxime all the while.

When Brice decided that his hands had reached a more appropriate temperature, he – entirely without warning – pressed a palm against Maxime's side.

“Better?”

Maxime could have died. He certainly stopped breathing for a moment. But he met Brice's gaze anyway, nodded quickly, and thanked him for his troubles. Then, as Brice worked, he tried not to focus on how the skin on his side still felt warm, long after the touch had been withdrawn.

In the end, Brice turned out to have something of a natural gift for toga-arranging. He had followed the same instructions as Morgan, to the tee, but the finished product fell much more gracefully around Maxime than it did around Wesley. Maxime, on the other hand, wrapped when he ought to have draped, and draped when he ought to have wrapped, stabbing Brice with safety pins throughout and apologizing profusely after each jab. At one point, Maxi became so flustered that Brice had to talk him into finishing the deed. Maxi protested, declaring that Brice was going to bleed to death.

“Keep going. You're almost there.”

“No. I can't. I've stabbed you like, fifty times. You're going to bleed to death.”

“Yes, but at least I'll die in a toga. It'll all look terribly artistic. Come on.”

Morgan and Wesley half-listened in to the conversation on the other side of the room. Their gazes met and they rolled their eyes as though to say _bless_. _Children._

Afterwards, Maxi and Brice stood back and admired their handiwork.

“How do I look?” Maxime asked nervously. He was meticulously draped, he knew, but a part of him still wanted to throw on a hoodie over the whole ensemble.

“Honestly?”

Bracing himself for the worst, Maxime nodded resolutely. “Honestly.”

“It really suits you. Your hair's a bit messed up,” Brice smiled, “and I'm not sure why, but it kind of works with the toga, y'know? How about me? Do I look okay?”

“I dunno.” Maxime teased. “Give me your best Roman statesman look, and then I'll tell you.”

Brice spent a minute trying to pull a serious face and failing dismally, breaking out into a grin or giggles each time. He eventually managed to pull a stern look, flaring his nose and frowning pensively as he looked to the side.

The expression altered his facial features immediately. Maxi found himself thinking that Brice's face was a strange compromise between youth and severity. When he finally pulled a statesman-like scowl, the softness of his face fell away to reveal the sharp lines of his brow and jawline.

Not for the first time that night, and by no means the last time, Maxi found himself thinking that Brice could be devastatingly good-looking when he wanted to be.

“There you go. It really suits you too.” Maxime concluded. “But y'know – don't pull that look all night, yeah?”

“Guys? A little help?” Wesley called out, sounding surprisingly desperate. He was on the floor in front of Morgan, the fabric in ten different tangles, none of which came close to resembling a toga.

“Brice, you go help him. I'll go get the laurel wreaths. I forgot them in my room”

Wes took a break from his fumblings to point an accusing finger at Maxi, and to protest in the strongest term. “No. No. I'm drawing the line. I am _not_ wearing a flower crown. Not with this print. I'm going to look like Katy Perry in the “Roar” video. No.”

“Not my problem, Fof.” Maxime sang out.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 When Morgan, Wesley, Maxime and Brice eventually came down to the foyer of the residence hall – to enthusiastic fanfare at Wesley's expense, in particular – they quickly realized they were several units of alcohol more sober than almost all of the other residents. Everyone was a little happier than they were, a little louder, a little more willing to hug and tackle and throw shoulder punches in jest.

And immediately, Maxime was on guard. Most people in the foyer were far too caught up in their own merriment to realize or care, but his shoulders tensed up and his posture stiffened just enough for his three companions to notice.

A part of him entertained the notion that Morgan, Wesley and Brice would disperse and find other people with whom to spend the evening at some point, and that he'd be left alone in a godforsaken bar in the middle of town without anyone to speak to. Maxime wasn't sure whether to ask Morgan, Wesley and Brice to stay nearby for the night, or whether he ought to quietly slip away and go back upstairs to his room, avoiding all risk.

He felt a reassuring squeeze on his arm, and looked to his side in time to catch a discreet smile from Brice.

And he even managed a smile back. _Breathe_. _You're over-reacting._

Vincent, Chou and Roro stood at the front of the pack, and began marshalling everyone onto three buses. While Vincent and Chou attempted to maintain a semblance of stern authority, eyes hawkishly scanning the crowd, Roro was as loud and cheerful as any of the other students.

Morgan, Wesley, Maxime and Brice managed to land the seats at the back of the second bus, largely because of Morgan's ability to shoulder his way through a crowd. He led the four of them through the hordes, and Wesley, Brice and Maxime were left to apologize to whomever he had bruised and pushed through as they walked past.

The bus ride itself passed in a haze of loud communal screeching that met the spirit, if not the definition, of singing. Wesley and Brice joined in at the top of their lungs, all dramatic actions and wild gesturing, as though no one was watching. Maxime sang along quietly – more to himself than anyone else - whereas Morgan rolled his eyes and surveyed the madness around him, and made a mental note that the four of them ought to visit a karaoke bar at some point.

The bus ride passed uneventfully, and eventually, the buses emptied the students out into a club in the city that had been hired for the toga party. Vincent, Chou, Roro, and the other senior students staked themselves out at various parts of the space to keep an eye on developments. Meanwhile, Servat was already near on the DJ platform when everyone arrived, and he looked menacingly out at the room, arms folded, as though daring anyone to misbehave. The decorations were tacky and the music was loud.

As soon as they entered, Morgan pulled them all to the bar, declared that the first round was on him, and asked them what they wanted to drink. Wesley asked for a beer, Brice asked for three different things in a row, changing each selection as soon as he made it, and eventually settled on a gin and tonic.

And Maxime? Maxime flushed and gave his selection inaudibly.

Morgan frowned and shook his head to indicate that he hadn't heard. “What? Maxi, speak louder.”

“A ginger beer.” Maxime repeated.

“A _what_?”

“A _GINGER BEER_.”

“Yeesh, I heard you the second time. I was just checking.” Morgan replied, hiding a smile. “A ginger beer? Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Maxi, we're at a _bar_.” Wesley pointed out, gesturing towards the room around them. “Come on. You can't have a ginger beer”

“I know we're at a bar.” Maxime insisted shyly. “But for now, just a ginger beer. Okay?”

He seemed so embarrassed that Morgan swallowed back his protestations and acceded to the request. A part of him suspected that Maxi had never had alcohol before, and Morgan wanted to ask if this was the case. However, he spared Maxi the probable embarrassment and placed the final order with the barman instead.

“Listen,” Brice said in Maxime's ear, just loud enough so that no one else could hear. “If you're not sure of what to have, I can make recommend a few things, okay?”

Maxime gave him an appreciate look and took the bottle of ginger beer that Morgan handed him. He shuffled a little closer to the rest of them, as more and more people made their way to the bar.

“This is gonna be a good night.” Wesley declared suddenly.

“You're optimistic.” Morgan replied, handing him his beer. “What makes you say that?”

“I just have a feeling, y'know?” Wesley replied, grinning and clinking his bottle with Maxime's.

Brice opened his mouth to make a smart-alecky response, but fell silent when someone approached him from behind and covered his eyes with their hands.

The mystery male was tall – exceptionally so, maybe even taller than Roro and Chou – and there was something remarkably serene about his face. He held himself with a quiet poise. His toga was meticulously arranged, and it combined with his smattering of a beard and the distinctive mole above his lips with quite an effect. He winked at the other three, letting them know to keep quiet.

“Who's that?” Brice asked.

The question was, naturally, met with silence from the rest of them.

“Come _on_.” Brice whined. “Who are you?”

“I think you're supposed to be guessing, Bricey.” Morgan offered, amused at how quickly Brice's features became cross when he didn't have the upper hand.

Brice paused and thought, and then shook his head in defeat, much to the heightened delight of the person behind him.

“I don't have a single clue.” Brice said sullenly. “I can't think of anyone.”

“Then you're not half as clever as you think you are, Brice.” The mystery male retorted, his tone mocking, removing his hands from Brice's eyes.

The voice triggered a spark of immediate recognition across Brice's features, changing his disposition entirely in moments.

“ _Samson_ _?_ ”

Brice turned around with all the excitability of a puppy whose owner had just come home. When he saw that it _was_ indeed Samson, Brice tackled him with a hug that almost knocked the two of them over, despite the significant difference in height between them. They embraced with familiarity, and tightly too, as though they hadn't seen each other for a very, very long time.

Eventually, Brice prised himself out of the hug and turned around back to the other three.

“Guys, this is Samson. Well, actually, he's Christophe,” he corrected himself, “but we call him Samson. We grew up down the road from each other. Except then he abandoned us for an exchange to South Africa last year – didn't you?– but I didn't realize you were back! How come I haven't seen you around the hall?”

“We've only been back for a few hours. We literally dropped our bags off in our room, borrowed spare togas from Vincent, and drove over here.”

Brice raised an eyebrow. “We? Who's we?”

Samson smiled bashfully. “Ah, well. There's someone I want you to meet in a second, after you've remembered your manners and introduced me to your friends.”

“Christ, of course.” Brice replied, though he seemed clearly distracted by the revelation. “Anyway. This is Wesley – he's my room-mate, and he's wearing a leopard-print toga, so – y'know – that probably tells you all you need to know about him. Next to him is Morgan. He's in the room next door and we do philosophy together. And this -” he smiled at Maxime “is Maxi. He's Morgan's room-mate and he's responsible for the flower crowns.”

“Laurel wreaths.” Maxime corrected him indignantly.

Samson laughed, caught Maxime's eyes and winked. “Nice to meet you all. But anyway – if you don't mind, I might just steal Brice for a short while. We have a fair bit of catching up to do, don't we, Dudule?”

Maxime panicked internally.

Brice looked to the others, and pointedly at Maxime. “I'll be back in ten. Promise. Okay?”

They nodded, and Samson and Brice departed, Samson's arm affectionately around Brice's shoulders.

Morgan, Maxime and Wesley shifted away from the bar and nearer to the wall, and eventually attracted a small swarm of first-years around them. Camille and Gael pulled Maxime aside and began a spirited discussion about some football game or another. Hugo and Jules turned up, said three or four words to everyone, and then found themselves a quiet corner nearby before pouncing on each other. Brice, despite his promise to be back within ten minutes, ended up being away for well over an hour. Morgan occasionally spied him across the room, in the company of Samson and a tall boy with a riot of blonde hair.

And Wesley? Wesley had spent the last half hour lamenting the music blaring over the sound system, and badmouthing the DJ to anyone who would listen. Presently, his audience consisted of Benoit, who was far too drunk to care what anyone said to him. He kept grooving in his spot, and every five minutes or so, he interrupted Wesley and tried to convince him to come dance.

Morgan was technically part of a conversation with Jean-Marc and Sofiane, but for once, found himself doing little of the talking. He surveyed his friends with a sense of tipsy peace, and tried to take another sip of his drink before realizing that his bottle was empty.

He noticed that Maxi was cradling an empty ginger beer bottle too, so Morgan took it out of his hands.

“Can I get you a _proper_ drink now?”

Maxime responded with a reproachful look. “Ginger beer _is_ a proper drink.”

“If you're going to get a coke, you can buy it for yourself. But when you want something a bit harder, you come talk to me, okay?”

“If I want a drink, I'll get it myself, Morgs.”

“What, and let you buy your first drink yourself? What am I, a barbarian?” And upon noting that Maxime's eyes had widened to the size of full moons, Morgan smiled at him reassuringly. “Yes. I guessed. Don't worry. And don't feel bad, okay?”

Maxime nodded, grateful that the dim lighting would conceal the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Where's Brice, anyway?” He asked, changing the subject, and posing the question as though he was indifferent to the answer.

Morgan shrugged and pointed to a general area across the room with the neck of his bottle. “I don't know Somewhere down there I think. I keep seeing him bobbing in an out of the crowd, but he seems to be too busy catching up. How come?”

“No reason. Just asking.”

 _I don't think I believe you, Maxi_ , Morgan thought to himself, but filed that line of inquiry for another time.

Wesley appeared at Morgan's side and pushed a fresh beer into his hands without warning. He handed Maxi a new bottle of ginger beer as well, and winked conspiratorially before returning to Benoit's side. He leaned back against the wall as though he owned the place.

Meanwhile, Benoit tried to grab Morgan's attention.

“Morgan. Morgan. _Morgan._ Morg- _aaaaaa_ n.”

“What?”

“Come dance with us.”

Morgan looked at him with complete incredulity. “Dance? You mean as in – dance?”

“Yes, dance as in _dance_.” Benoit replied

“No. Nope. No.”

“ _Yes_.” Wesley replied decisively, as though that was the end of the matter. “You're coming.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I'll fetch the axe.” Wes retorted.

Morgan looked to Maxime for help, but Maxime raised his hands as though to say _leave me out of this one_. Morgan turned back to the two of them.

“You mean on that dance-floor over there? That no one's dancing on? And you want us – _us_ – to be the first?”

Benoit nodded his head vigorously. “Exactly. We're going to open it.”

“No. No way. I can't dance.”

“Everyone can dance.” Wesley insisted, enjoying Morgan's resistance and seemingly confident of breaking through it. “All you need is decent blood alcohol content and the right song.”

“Come _on_ , Morgan.” Benoit whined. “Hips like that weren't made for hovering awkwardly near the bar.”

The compliment caught Morgan completely off-guard, and everyone around him laughed at his stunned silence.

Eventually, Morgan gathered his wits back and replied. “I'm nowhere near drunk enough for that to work. So no.”

“And if you eventually _get_ that drunk,” Wes asked casually, “What would you say was the likelihood of you joining us out there, expressed as a percentage.”

“Forty per cent. If you're lucky.”

“Then,” Wesley replied, pointing a menacing finger in Morgan's direction, “we're going to get you drunk. And we'll see you on the dance-floor.”

“We'll see.”

That was good enough for Wesley and Benoit, who clinked their bottles together, and then against Morgan's, before proceeding to empty their respective drinks in record time.

And then they moved to the empty dance-floor, just as a new song began to play. Morgan and Maxime exchanged a brief look.

Wesley and Benoit, to no one's surprise, moved to the very centre of the vast, empty space – and because the dance-floor was sunken, three or four steps lower than the rest of the bar, their arrival quickly attracted the attention of everyone else in the room. But Wesley and Benoit didn't care. As the opening chords of Pitbull's “Give Me Everything” blared across the room, they began dancing like nobody was watching, as though they were surrounded by a mob of people doing the exact same thing. Wes busied himself with a two-step and some vigorous shoulder action, whereas Benoit was lost in a surprisingly co-ordinated rendition of something that looked like the twist.

It took them less than a minute to break the ice in the whole room, and people began milling onto the dance-floor like they'd been waiting for an excuse to do so. A cluster formed around them and grew bigger, and bigger, till there were more people on the dance-floor than there were off it.

Eventually, it became impossible to make out where they were in the crowd.

“Infuriating, isn't it?” Maxime said suddenly.

“What's infuriating?” Morgan replied.

“The way they can just – y'know – _do_ that. Go out and dance and to hell with what anyone thinks of them.”

Morgan couldn't resist a smirk. “It probably seems scarier than it is when all you have is ginger beer in your veins.”

Maxime jabbed him in the ribs. “Fine. _You_ go out there and dance, if it's that easy.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Someone has to stay back here and keep you company, right?”

Despite suspecting that it was probably a joke, Maxime suddenly came over all apologetic.

“Listen, Morgan, please don't feel like you have to babysit - “

“Maxi?” Morgan interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet.” He responded genuinely. “No one's babysitting anybody. We're friends. Okay?”

And then, maybe because he could sense Maxi's genuine terror, or maybe because he could never hold his alcohol particularly well, Morgan pulled Maxi into a forceful bear-hug.

And for the first time since they'd arrived, Maxi briefly forgot that Brice wasn't there, and relaxed, and hugged Morgan back.


	9. Chapter 9

The minute he stepped into the club, it took almost all of Maxime Medard's self-control not to turn around and go back home. The area had been festooned with cheap-looking decorative urns and greenery for the occasion, and a horde of white fabric had taken over the dance-floor, pulsating as a single drunken hive. Everyone was loud, everyone was happy, and he was neither.

Max surveyed the room, and to his relief, Yoann was nowhere in sight. However, he caught sight of Clem and Dimitri Szarzewski at a table in the furthest corner of the room, and with a quick goodbye to Benji and Thomas – who had stayed near near him till now, presumably to make sure he didn't bolt - he made a beeline for them. Clem caught sight of him first, elbowed Tsar to catch his attention, and pulled out the chair next to him.

Max took comfort in how they seemed as eager as him to remain as far away from the general calamity of the toga party. If Max knew anything about either Clem or Tsar, he suspected that they were both only here out of a sense of duty to Vincent, as extra eyes and hands.

“So.” Clem began, particularly delighted to see him. “I guess that means I owe Benji a twenty.”

“What do you mean?”

“This morning at breakfast, I bet him twenty that you wouldn't turn up tonight. I guess he convinced you otherwise, huh?”

Max stared at Clem for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, he couldn't keep the betrayal out of his voice. “He came into my room and pulled me out of bed for _twenty_?”

“Ah, don't worry.” Tsar replied, patting him gently on the arm. “He probably had your best interests at heart too. But you know what Benji's like when you tell him he can't do something.”

“I think I'm going to kill him.” Max declared, although he knew that there was still truth in all that Benji had said to him. Cheap bet notwithstanding.

“Anyway,” Clem cut in, “it's good to see you. I feel like I haven't talked to you since last year. How's everything going?”

Max shrugged and reached for a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. “Same as ever.” He answered, between mouthfuls. “Class is going okay. Nothing to report from my end.”

Clem and Tsar exchanged a brief look.

“What?” Max asked, catching it.

Tsar leaned forward across the table, towards him. “It's just - that's it? You're sure? Everything's going okay?”

“I didn't say everything was okay. I said class was going okay. I said there was nothing else to report.”

Clem picked up the slight edge that had appeared in Max's tone. He knew that Max was private even in his best moods. On the rare occasion when he retreated further into himself, there was usually no point in trying to cajole him back out.

“Well, if you're sure.” Clem said delicately.

“I am sure. Now - will you two please stop looking at me like that?”

Tsar thought about it for a moment before earnestly replying “Probably not.”

Clem fired a disapproving look at Tsar. Max threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

“ _Guys_.”

“We're worried about you.” Tsar insisted, trying to pacify him. “ _Everyone's_ worried about you. And you're not talking to anyone.”

_Twice in one night_ , Max thought to himself. _Just my luck._

He looked from one to the other, and contemplated his options. More than anything, he was fed up with how everyone and their aunt looked so _concerned_ around him all the time. On the few occasions that he had attempted to socialize since the beginning of the semester, he couldn't begin to relax for all the silent pity everyone fired his way.

“If I tell you two what happened,” he began, “will you promise to stop treating me like a bomb with a lit fuse?”

“That depends.” Tsar responded casually. “Will you have smiled once by the end of the night?”

“I can't promise you anything.”

“Then we can't either. But go on and tell us anyway. You never know. It might make you feel better.”

Before he began, Max wondered whether Yoann would object to him telling anyone what happened. They hadn't discussed it – they hadn't discussed much of anything, recently – and he wasn't sure what to read from the fact that Yo had refrained from telling anyone else either.

Then again, the entire Hall seemed to have worked out that something fundamental had changed between them over the summer. If this was to be a permanent state of affairs, and that was indeed how it seemed, there was no sense in keeping the reasons behind it quiet.

“Look,” he said hesitantly, “I'm not exactly sure if Yoann wants me to tell anyone – but he didn't say anything about keeping quiet, so just.... I know you'll probably tell Vincent, Clem, but you'll be discreet, won't you?”

They nodded gently in confirmation, and he began.

–

Max and Yoann's first year at the Hall had played out exactly as Max had hoped it would. They arrived together, and although they weren't assigned a shared room, they spent a lot of their time together, just as they had done for most of their high school years. It was _comfortable,_ although he would come to learn that some people didn't perceive that as a virtue.

They made other friends, of course, and their respective peer circles at the Hall didn't overlap entirely. Max had friends with whom he went to obscure underground gigs, to watch bands no one had heard of before, and Yo had his group of debating friends. But they were happy. They were together for the moments that mattered.

They both returned home for the holidays at the end of their first year, and immediately fell back into pleasant routines of part-time work and summer laziness. They caught up with their friends, reclaimed their old haunts, and reacquainted themselves with the town they had abandoned for the year.

Max had been content with the world till one afternoon, when they were out walking by the riverside. Yoann was much more subdued than his usual self. Max initially pegged it to tiredness from work, but they kept walking, and Yo remained quiet, and Max found himself speaking more to fill in the silence.

Eventually, Yoann spoke, and his words came out in a tone that Max hadn't heard from him before.

“Listen, Max - ” he began - but then he faltered.

In the weeks thereafter, Max had stewed over those two words. He turned them over and over in his head like an artifact, pulling them apart to figure out what it was about them that had made him feel uncomfortable. The answer came to him weeks later, on one of the many summer evenings he had spent shut away in his room. When Yoann had spoken them, his tone was apprehensive. That bothered Max supremely because in the lifetime they had known each other, he couldn't recall another incident where Yoann had seemed afraid to tell him something. Normally, Yo spoke without any filters – and he was that way with everyone, but _especially_ with Max.

“Yo? What's the matter?”

A long pause followed. Yoann opened his mouth several times as though he was about to say something, but then stopped. It gave Max the distinct impression that Yoann wasn't struggling to find something to say. His seemed like the hesitation of someone who knew _exactly_ what he wanted to say, but was afraid of saying it.

“Yo. Come on. You can tell me.”

Yoann stopped in his tracks, and Max stopped along with him. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he wouldn't meet Max's eyes. However, he eventually steeled himself, met Max's gaze, and spoke with a voice that was resolute in only the loosest sense of the word.

“Max?”

“Yes?”

“I think we need to take a break.”

“A – what?”

It hadn't registered at first. He heard the words. He knew what they meant. _But surely not_.

“A break, Max. I'm – sorry.”

“A break from what?”

In retrospect, Max reflected that it had been a ridiculous question. He had known, but asked the question anyway, in the off-chance that he may may have misunderstood.

“From each other.”

“But – why?”

If Yoann had seemed uncomfortable beforehand, asking him to explain his decision only amplified his discomfort. He ran a nervous hand through his messy hair.

“Because we just – should. We've been together for – how long now? Three years.”

“Is that a … bad thing?”

“No,” responded Yoann uneasily. “It's not bad. It's just – well – comfortable?”

“I don't understand.”

Except a part of Max was beginning to understand, and it was sinking, and taking his heart down with it. He had never seen Youann look so miserable.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Yo answered anxiously. “It's just – we've been doing this for three years. And they've been great. And I'm glad we had them, but -”

A break had never even crossed his mind – and yet here was Yoann, speaking as though he had been holding it in, like he was being honest for the first time in months.

“But _what_ , Yo?”

“I'm sorry, Max.” Yo repeated, with some difficulty, although apologizing was the only thing he seemed to know how to do at the moment. It wasn't right, but at least it couldn't fracture anything further. It was safe.

But Max was having none of it. He didn't want to be angry. He _knew_ that anger wouldn't do anything to improve the situation, but in the moment, it was instinctive. He resorted to it reflexively, and his words came out sounding harsher than he intended them to be.

“How can you be – what was wrong? What did I do?”

“You didn't do anything. You didn't say or do anything wrong, I swear. It's not about you.” Yoann replied, offering platitudes with all the efficacy of a man trying to cup flowing water in his hands.

“Then tell me. Tell me what it's about.”

“I can't. I don't know. I just – I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, Max. I'm so sorry.”

“So when you say we're taking a break,” Max asked roughly, turning his mind to practical matters, “what kind of break do you want? A month? Three months? Till you change your mind?”

It was the question Yoann had been dreading for days. Every time he had played out how this conversation would go in his head, contemplating this question was always the hardest.

“Permanently, Maxi. I'm - I'm sorry”

It stung more with the term of endearment. Max stared blankly at Yoann, for a long while, and took a foul satisfaction in the discomfort across every single one of Yoann's features.

But _p_ _ermanently._ The word had a terrible finality about it.

“Oh.”

“Don't you – haven't you ever just wanted to, y'know, see other people for a bit?

“No.”

_How could you even ask, Yo?_

“You mean that it's never even crossed your mind? Not once?”

“Never.”

Yoann didn't have to admit that it had crossed his mind once, twice, twenty times. The admission was implicit in his questions.

“I'm so sorry, Max.” And he said it with such gut-wrenching sincerity that Max wanted to slam his fist into the nearest wall with frustration. “I'm sorry.”

“You keep apologising.”

_It's not helping. It's making things worse._

“I don't know what else to do.” Yoann replied, his tone steeped in misery “Can we – can we just talk about this?”

“What's there to say?” Max bit back.

“I just – I don't want to lose you as a friend too.”

“I don't want to be friends.”

Yo greeted the answer with gloom, but without surprise. Max figured that he had seen it coming.

“Is that it?” Max asked coldly.

For the first time in the conversation, Yo seemed on the verge of tears. Max could see a thin film over his eyes, which he blinked back furiously, and all Max wanted to do was pull him in and let Yo heave everything out on his shoulder. They had been together for so long that the need to do so was involuntary.

But Max reigned in the urge to comfort him for both their sakes. Something else in him was beginning to burn. He didn't want to hurt Yoann – he could never do that – but he didn't want this to be easy for him either.

He didn't know what to feel. He wanted to break down and cry as much as he wanted to cave in to his anger. He wanted to walk away and leave Yo where he was to spite him as much as he wanted to fall on his knees and reason with Yo to change his mind. He wanted to shut out the thought of what just happened as much as he wanted to pore over every recallable memory of their relationship to figure out what had gone wrong, and when.

Instead, he walked away and left Yoann standing there, even though half of every cell in his body wanted to turn around and go back.

He returned home in a daze, not thinking about where he was going, allowing his feet to find the route back for him reflexively. As soon as he arrived, he went upstairs to his room, into bed, and into the abyss of dark thoughts that would keep him company for the rest of summer.

At first, Yoann tried ceaselessly to get in contact with Max. He messaged, he called, and he even tried turning up at his house once or twice. Max obsessively read every single text, listened to each message on his answer-phone, and memorized every single heartfelt plea, but he didn't reply once. If Yoann came and asked for him, everyone in the family was under instructions to say that Max was out. His parents and brothers had been supremely confused, but Max made the request in such a chilly manner that they judged it best not to ask why.

Yoann never believed their excuses anyway. Max knew as much, because Yoann's messages told him so.

Max withdrew entirely into himself. He never left his room, save for work and mealtimes. Although he had been quiet before, the full solitude of which he was capable became apparent to everyone around him, and it alarmed them. Max didn't know what else to do. The venn diagram of his friends and Yoann's friends at home was a perfect circle, and he didn't have the heart to play out a custody battle for their attention. He figured that Yoann was still seeing everyone – and since he didn't want to see Yoann, he wouldn't see anyone else either.

But then, Max found that Yoann stopped trying, and that hurt him even more.

The bombardment of messages eventually became regular, before becoming occasional, and then infrequent, and then it stopped. The first day that Yoann didn't bother to get in touch with him once, Max couldn't get to sleep. He tossed and turned and rearranged his pillow and turned on the radio and switched it off again and read a book and put it down, all to no avail.

Till then, he had derived a small, stupid comfort from the fact that he was on Yoann's mind as much as Yoann was on his, but when the contact stopped, even that was lost to him. A part of him had hoped, perhaps stupidly, that by pushing Yoann away, he'd bring him closer – but he had only succeeded in pushing him way.

He spent the rest of the summer trying to excise Yoann out of his life. The hardest part was the litany of reminders each day threw at him. They had been together so long that a heap of Yoann's things had naturally accumulated in his room. When he looked for something to wear each morning, he'd invariably stumble on a t-shirt or sweater of Yoann's that he forgot he had. When he rifled through his collection of CDs, he would eventually flick past discs that Yoann had brought over during afternoons that now seemed an age ago. His bookshelf offered him the same minefield of memories. At first, he ignored them – stuffing the t-shirt away, finding something else to listen to – but they were always there, echoes of Yoann that remained long after Yoann ought to have departed his mind.

But one afternoon, towards the end of summer, he surprised his mother by asking for a box. He filled it with Yoann's belongings more quickly than he would have liked, and had to ask for a second. When Max had finished, he was dismayed to find that he didn't feel any better.

He trundled everything into the boot of his car, and drove the boxes to Yoann's house on a Thursday, when he knew Yoann took the long shift at the cafe where he worked.

Yoann's mother answered the door, and smiled sadly at the sight of him with the boxes. She had always been rather fond of Max, and Max had always been rather fond of her.

“Max.”

“Hi, Mrs Huget.”

“What's all this?”

“Yoann's things.” He replied awkwardly.

“Did Yoann ask for his things back?”

Max shook his head. “No. He probably doesn't even remember that he owns any of these things. I just – figured he might like to have them back.”

Her sad smile took on something a little wry. “Right. The post-breakup exorcism. I understand.”

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

“I – need to get back home.”

“Yoann's not home for at least another five hours, if that's what your worried about.” She pointed out.

Despite himself, the corners of Max's mouth twitched up. “I know, but no. And thanks. I appreciate it. Honestly.”

She paused for a moment, as though she was thinking about whether to admit what she wanted to say next.

“He misses you, you know. And he's worried about you. But if it's any consolation, I'm in your corner on this one.”

Something twisted in his chest. “You are?”

“Oh, completely.” She replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “When he came home and told me he had broken up with you, I wouldn't make him his dinner.”

“Thanks, Mrs Huget.”

“I hope he comes to his senses.”

_Me too_.

She sent regards to his mother and he returned home. The first thing he did when he arrived was call the Hall, poised to request a room change, and readying himself for the inevitable wrath of the administrators at disrupting the accommodation arrangements so close to the semester. And yet, his request was met with a wary notification that Yoann had called to ask for a switch weeks earlier, which had all been arranged. He would now be sharing a room with Thomas Domingo.

Max hung up the phone in a state of disbelief. _He had called the Hall weeks ago. Weeks ago._ The swiftness with which Yoann had begun to move on hurt enough to send Max back to bed for the rest of the afternoon, and the night.

–

“That's basically it.” Max concluded. “We didn't speak for the rest of the summer.”

“What about since you've been back? Have you talked?”

Max thought back to their single, brief encounter. “He followed me out after dinner one day to talk. That's about it.”

“What did he say?” Clem asked.

“Nothing unexpected. He apologized, again. He told me that he hoped we could still be friends. He said he didn't want to lose me entirely. He didn't want us to spend the rest of the year trying to avoid each other.”

“And you replied - ?”

Max shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I said fine. What else could I say?”

“Do you think you two _can_ just be friends?” Clem frowned.

“Look at him.” Tsar replied, matter-of-factedly. “Not with that attitude. Why did you tell him that it was okay when it wasn't?”

Max game Tsar a humorless, withering look.

“What do you want me to do? _T_ _alk_ to him about all of this?”

“Maybe you should. I mean, I know he was your boyfriend, and he's not that anymore. But he was your best friend too, wasn't he?.”

“He was my best friend _because_ he was my boyfriend. Those two things – I can't separate them.”

“You two need to talk. One way or another.” Tsar insisted gently.

“You're probably right. But I don't want to. I don't even know what I'd say to him.” Max replied. Anticipating what Tsar was about to say next, Max gave him a warning look,. “And I can't be honest with him. I can't.”

_Where would I even begin_?

On one hand, there was nothing to say that Yoann wouldn't know already. On another, a part of Max was tired of suffering through it quietly. He wanted to hold out his heart to Yoann, just to show him exactly what he had done. At first, he had avoided Yoann because he didn't want to show him the toll the breakup had taken on him – but now, he found himself thinking that maybe he had been wrong to spare Yoann the worst.

Mercifully, Clem sensed that Max wouldn't be swayed on the issue, so he asked something else. “Do you at least know why he did it?”

“No.” Max replied bitterly. He had spent most of his summer contemplating that as well, without coming any closer to an answer. “All he told me was that we had been together for three years, and that it was getting comfortable. He said that there wasn't anything _wrong_ , but he broke up with me anyway. That's it.”

“He just wanted a change?'

“He didn't say it in as many words, but the inference was there to be made.” And that was the hardest bit for Max to understand – that Yoann might have been _bored_. He had been happy, and Yoann had been bored.

“Max, I'm so sorry.” Clem replied wistfully. “I honestly – Vincent and I were crushed when we found out.”

Max shrugged.

Tsar leaned back in his chair and regarded Max with a curious expression. “Do you think – y'know – you'll start dating again?”

“ _Tsar_.” Clem chastised him, eyes flashing. “What are you – _honestly_. Max, ignore him.”

“I'll have to, eventually, won't I?” Max replied, clearly to the surprise of them both.

He wasn't sure if he particularly _wanted_ to, or that he had the heart for it at this stage, or anytime soon, but Yo had made it abundantly clear that the breakup was, as he had lucidly put it, _permanent_.

“Well. Just make sure that you only do it when you're ready.” Clem counselled sagely, eyes fixed on Tsar, still scandalised by the suggestion in the first place. “There's no rush. And it would be unfair to you – and whoever you go out with – if you start dating when your head's still somewhere else.”

Tsar sipped his beer and rolled his eyes. “Oh, would you _relax_. Max is a clever boy. He'll do what's right.”


End file.
